


A Multitude of Sins

by cryptonym



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 14:24:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1391044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptonym/pseuds/cryptonym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter 4:8 - Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Multitude of Sins

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** #[64](http://hd-hurtfest.livejournal.com/2436.html?thread=40068#t40068) by sksdwrld  
>  **Disclaimer** : Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.  
>  **Author Notes** : Huge thanks are due to M who went above and beyond in beta-ing, putting up with my meltdowns and belligerence. It wouldn’t make any sense at all without all your work. And thank you so much to F for leaping into the fray to beta the hell out of it (pardon the pun) early on when I was struggling. Also, I have to say a huge thank you to our faithful mod, for your patience which allowed me to get this done and submitted for posting despite all the extra deadlines I needed. I am so grateful to all of you.
> 
> ETA: I am thrilled to say I have received the most beautiful art for this fic from [iwao](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwao/pseuds/Iwao) "Surrender" which is included in the body of the fic with permission and can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2112255) so you can leave some love for the artist ♥ Thank you :D

** A Multitude of Sins **

The new priest, Father Harry Potter, is not what I was expecting at all. He’s fidgeting like a schoolboy, raising himself up and down on the balls of his feet, looking around him every so often.

I stare through the peephole for a while longer, observing him – casual dress, though all black, of course, save for the collar, messy hair, ridiculous round glasses that draw attention to astonishingly green eyes. On his forehead there is a scar in the shape of a lightning-bolt.

He rings the bell again and I step back to open the door to him.

He snaps his head up, startled by my sudden appearance, and steps forward. “Hello, Mr Malfoy, isn’t it? I spoke to you on the phone yesterday evening. Father Harry Potter.” He holds out a hand to me. I glance at it and turn my back on him.

“I was expecting you earlier. The tea will be cold by now.”

~o~o~o~

Well, that could have gone better. I should have made more of an effort to get there on time, but it’s not as if I could just turn out Mrs Hill in the middle of telling me about her son in Cambodia.

I’ll just have to ask the Bishop for advice - maybe after supper – and hope that something comes to me in the meantime.

The housekeeper greets me at the front door of the Rectory, looking slightly flustered.

“Father, Bishop Dumbledore is here to see you.”

“Oh, jolly good, thank you Molly.” It seems the Lord has already answered my prayers. I give her a smile and a touch on the arm. Molly shows me through to what I have nicknamed the cosy parlour. There is only room for the two wing-back chairs by the fireplace and small occasional table between them.

The Bishop is sitting perusing a knitting magazine, circa 1980. He holds it aloft as I come into the room. “Mind if I take this?”

“I’m sure we won’t miss it.”

Molly huffs as she leaves the room and I realise my mistake. She is a very keen knitter, as evidenced by the jumpers, scarves, mittens and bobble-hats sported by my fellow clergy.

“Oh, I am sorry, perhaps not.”

The Bishop sighs and puts the magazine back in the rack.

I kneel to kiss his hand before helping myself to a cup of mercifully hot tea and a couple of pink wafers.

“Are you settling in well, Harry?”

“Yes, absolutely, thank you Bishop.”

“I’ve told you before, Harry, when it’s just us you may call me Albus. I don’t go in much for this bowing and scraping.”

“Thank you, Albus. Well, yes, I’m very happy here. The others have been very welcoming. It’s quite strange to be sharing again.”

“Yes, your last position was rather a secluded one.”

I nod. I hadn’t enjoyed it very much. The parish was reluctant and I had felt like a shrivelled walnut rattling around inside its shell in that massive house with its terrifying pictures and gloomy outlook. The thought of Mr Malfoy in his own crumbling relic pops into my mind.

“Actually, I was going to phone you after supper. I just met with Mr Malfoy, at the Manor.”

A strange, indecipherable look passes across the bishop’s face. “How did you find him?”

“Prickly. He had made tea, though.”

“Really?! Hmm, excellent.”

“I was late. It was cold by the time we got to drink it. I think... I had the feeling he was watching me stand on his doorstep for a while. But he looked... well. Not _happy_ , but he had taken care with his appearance.” It’s a struggle to articulate the impression he made on me, the word that keeps reverberating around my mind is ‘striking’. “He seems very proud. I doubt I’ll be able to offer any help without a fight.”

Albus looks pleased, and helps himself to a ginger nut. “I think you’re doing a wonderful job. Be a friend, Harry - that is what you’re good at.”

“Oh, well... is there anything else I should know? I don’t want to step on his toes, and I think that’s rather easy to do. He’s protective of himself. He is on his own?”

“Oh yes, his wife has returned to her parents’ home with their son.”

“And he doesn’t see him?”

Albus frowns. “I’m afraid not. I think that Astoria has the boy’s best interests at heart - it seems that he was being rather badly bullied at school over all the business with Draco’s father. You do know about that?”

“Yes, and I understand why I am being asked to do this, I just don’t think-”

“I believe Draco was caught up in his father’s business at some point,” Albus carries on as if I haven’t spoken.

My heart contracts painfully. “Forced?” I ask.

“I believe so, yes. Perhaps you can find out more.”

“I’ll do my best, Albus.”

Albus rises, setting his teacup back on the tray. I stand with him and he pats my arm. “No need to get up, Harry, I’ll see myself out. You are a good priest, I am sure you’ll find a way to reach him.”

“I’ll pray,” I blurt out, and I feel myself reddening at such an obvious and ridiculous statement. But the Bishop just smiles that strange smile of his and nods.

I sit for a while longer, until Molly comes to tell me that supper is ready.

“Oh, Molly, I managed to save your knitting magazine. I’m really sorry that I offered it to the bishop, I had no idea.”

Molly tuts and shakes her head, but she is smiling.

~o~o~o~

I am beginning to wish I hadn’t made the payment on my phone bill, after all. Five phone calls from Father Potter – the man really doesn’t know when to give up. In the end I agreed to another meeting just to have a moment’s peace from the piercing ring breaking the silence. Of course I can’t afford to be cut off, while there is still the slightest chance that Astoria will see sense and let Scorpius ring me.

I can’t think about her or my blood will be boiling by the time Father Potter arrives. I wonder what he wants this time. I made it quite clear that I won’t be going anywhere near the church.

Perhaps I need to spell it out.

I don’t bother with the niceties of tea this time. He arrives slightly before the allotted time and I make him wait on the step again. Perhaps he is one of those eternally optimistic people who can only see the good in everything and everyone. More fool him, if so. 

I show him in to the drawing room and sit down. He hovers, waiting for me to offer him a seat. It’s amusing to watch him trying to decide what to do. Eventually he sinks down to perch on the edge of the sofa.

“Is this alright?” he asks.

I roll my eyes but hold my tongue for the time being.

He clears his throat and tries again. “Well, the thing is, I just wondered: is there anything I can do for you?”

Well, that is unexpected. “Such as?”

“I’m not sure. I... you have been in my prayers.”

I snort at that. “I wouldn’t waste my breath.”

His face goes all soft then, it’s rather disconcerting. “It’s not wasted. No-one is beyond redemption.”

Hmmm, if only he knew.

“Look, Father, I am not interested in anything you have to offer. I have been doing perfectly well on my own.”

“I just wondered if... look, I know your circumstances are difficult, and I just wondered if I could help you.”

It really is too much. I leap up, my hands clenched into fists and I allow my shame to explode in cold fury. “Get out! I’m not your charity case, _Father_ Potter. I don’t need you or your good intentions. Leave. Me. Alone.”

He gets up from his chair, but stands his ground. “I can’t. I mean, I want to help you, is that such a bad thing?”

“Oh, spare me, please. If you want to believe in a sky fairy who made everything and now ignores it all, then you go right ahead. Leave me out of it.”

That hurt. I can see it written across his face which is an open book.

“I understand you’re upset,” he says.

“No, you don’t understand anything.”

“I know what it’s like to be alone.” He shouts it, hands clenched every bit as tightly as mine are.

I feel giddy, nauseated. He must be able to see that, maybe he misinterprets it, because he says “I’ll... go.” He trips over his own feet in his effort to get out. The front door bangs shut behind him.

I go to the front parlour and sit at the piano. It’s so horribly out of tune that it makes me wince even to think of playing it, I touch my fingertips softly to the keys. There is a painful knot in my chest, irritatingly impossible to get rid of. I give up after a while and head down to the wine cellar – about the only thing that has been improved with age. All the best stuff got sold off or was drunk years ago, but I have enough Merlot to sink me for a good while yet.

~o~o~o~

I am caught between a rock and a hard place, it seems: Draco Malfoy is infuriating, frustrating - impossible to speak to on normal terms. He makes me _angry_. But I also feel drawn to him like a moth to the proverbial flame. I want to help him find peace - I’m just not sure he wants it. There were no pictures, nothing of his family, his son, but I am sure it’s because he finds it too painful.

I go to the sanctuary of my church, dip a finger in the holy water to bless myself and kneel - genuflecting before Christ - giving myself up to him completely. The weight begins to lift from my shoulders. I am never alone.

It is quiet, cool and dark inside with the lingering scent of incense and beeswax polish. I can feel His presence all around me. I know that He is always with me, but here more than anywhere else I can focus on that feeling. It’s like a gentle hand on my shoulder - fatherly and loving. I go toward the front and take a pew.

I need a plan. I can’t just go blindly stumbling about the way I have been. I had assumed that he would be more comfortable on his own ground - in his home. That isn’t the case. He is a proud man and it’s too obvious to an outsider that his past is not his present. I’ll need to get him out of there to make any impression at all.

The rectory is a hive of activity by the time I return. Molly is doing the dinner and chases me out of the kitchen when I offer to help. Ron, Molly’s son, is setting the table for dinner, Dean and Seamus are playing handball against the wall in the hallway, and Neville is in the garden.

I go to my bedroom for a bit of peace and quiet before dinner. I glance through my diary for the coming week and a possible answer presents itself: there is a church function coming up.

I dial the number, nerves causing me to misdial twice. Draco answers promptly and he sounds so hopeful that I’m sorry to have called him. He is clearly hoping it’s someone other than me. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that he’s hoping it will be his son.

“I’m so sorry to call you,” I say, winding the spirals of the phone cord around my finger. “I just wondered if you would be free on Thursday evening. We’re having a charity supper to raise funds for the new village hall. I’d really like you to come.” I blurt it all out before he has a chance to get angry.

There’s silence at the other end and I wonder if he’s actually hung up on me. Maybe he put the phone down as I talked and wandered off.

“Is that all?” he asks, after a few more moments.

I imagine him composing himself, coming down from his disappointment at hearing me instead of his wife or his son or anyone else that he loves.

“I’m so sorry to have called like this. I just... yes - yes, that’s all I was calling for.”

“What time?”

I’m not entirely sure what time suits him, so my answer comes out as a question. “Eight o’clock?”

“Are you asking me?”

“We decided to hold it between six and ten pm, hopefully that way more people will be able to take part. Some local restaurant owners are cooking for free. All the money raised is going to the-”

“I’m not interested in the details. How much is it?”

“Oh, no, I don’t... I wanted you to come as my guest. I thought-”

His voice turns cold. “I am not a charity case, Father Potter.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to offend you. I just thought-”

“No.”

I scrabble around for some way to convince him. “Well, maybe... maybe you could donate something?”

He seems to ponder this for a few moments. Apparently it is acceptable. “Will a case of wine be sufficient?”

“That would be perfect, thank you.”

“It’s being held at the memorial hall.” I can’t keep the pleasure out of my voice. I hadn’t been entirely convinced by the plan or my abilities of persuasion.

“Very well, I shall see you there. Thursday at eight o’clock. Would you like me to drop off the wine before?”

“Yes, if that’s alright.”

I hang up and I actually hug myself, because I feel like I might burst. It seems like such a breakthrough. I try not to give in to the sin of pride and fail abysmally.

~o~o~o~

I can’t believe I am even contemplating this: Sunday mornings are for sleeping off hangovers, not facing the man I basically threw out of my house three days ago. The bells are ringing, calling the faithful to worship. To me it feels more like for whom the bell tolls – an inexorable step on the path to my own funeral. But now I’ve been roped into this supper I don’t want to go in with my eyes closed. I’m still not sure what possessed me to agree.

I walk to the church, ignoring the looks and the whispers that follow me in, taking a book and an order of service from a grumpy looking white-haired man with sharp blue eyes. I look around for an empty pew near the back. Those at the rear are reserved for families with young children forcing me forward, feeling like an interloper.

The sounds and smells are enough to bring back the memories of childhood. The organist is playing what sounds like the religious equivalent of an improvised jazz number. The heavy scent of incense making me feel giddy and unreal – I used to imagine that was what the caterpillar’s hookah smelled like whenever I read Alice in Wonderland.

I take a seat and try to remember what I can, using the booklet. The memories flood back: boredom, my mother surreptitiously pinching me to make me behave.

The service starts with Father Harry Potter leading the congregation. I stumble my way through the answers; I don’t even pretend to sing along with the hymns. The lesson is strange, almost surreal, about a man called Jacob wrestling with an angel all night and being left with a dodgy hip and a different name.

Father Potter goes to the altar and prepares for the Holy Communion. There is an abundance of bell ringing and incense swinging and I get that surreal, giddy feeling again. The congregation start lining up to receive the sacrament. I don’t belong up there, but I don’t want to just sit and watch passively. I take my place at the back of the line to wait my turn.

When I reach the front, I kneel, cross my arms over my chest and raise my eyes to Father Potter’s. There is a hint of surprise from him before he touches my hair and blesses me. His green eyes seem darker, searching, penetrating; his cheeks flushed. I must be imagining things. His fingertips aren’t really curling against my hair. I feel my face heat up and a desperate need to get away as quickly as possible.

At last it is over and I follow the rest of the congregation back to the pew, glad of a chance to sit and gather myself together. Am I attracted to Father Harry Potter? Is that what pulled me to the church this morning? I don’t want to believe it.

Once the service is over I try to escape, but he’s there, outside the door, taking the hand of each of his congregation. I can’t get past without shoving old dears out of the way.

There is a moment’s hesitation before he reaches out his hand to me. I remember that first day in my hallway where I ignored this offer. He looks like he expects the same treatment now, but I touch his hand. It’s like touching a live wire. Neither of us speaks for what seems an eternity. I’m the first to come to my senses and pull away.

“It was good to see you, Mr Malfoy,” he says, sounding nervous. “I hope this means-”

“I don’t know,” I say, interrupting him, and then I turn my back on him, making my way through the crowd as quickly as I can.

As soon as I get home I go through to the kitchen and pour a glass of water. I try to ground myself with the banality of household chores and the past few hours take on the feel of a dream. Every so often my mind flashes back to the look on Father Potter’s face when I was kneeling before him. It’s ridiculous. It’s my overactive imagination, seeing something that isn’t there - the dark look, nothing more than the low light at that end of the church, in the candlelight. Perhaps he was just wondering why the fuck I was there.

My frustration boils over, yet again, and I throw my glass in the sink, smashing it.

“It was a mistake,” I say to the air. I have no idea to whom I am addressing the thought.

~o~o~o~

Draco’s attendance at mass caused a bit of a stir and I got my first taste of the less charitable attitudes of some of my congregation. I decided there and then on the subject of my next mass, whether or not Draco is in attendance.

I’m thrilled that, without any prompting from me, he’s made this step. I was right about the Manor being a barrier and I’m more certain of the supper idea. I offer up a prayer of thanks to God for his guidance and spend the next few days looking at the supper plans and organising the seating in a way that I hope will make him comfortable enough to open up - maybe make some friends in the village.

I missed Draco delivering the wine. I don’t know much about it, but it’s good quality and he’s provided three cases, more than enough for the entire evening. It seems strange after getting off to such a bad start. With everything coming together I allow myself to get a bit excited about Thursday night.

~o~o~o~

Against my better judgement, more as a testament to my mother’s insistence that once made appointments must not be broken at any cost, I find myself at the old village hall, dressed in my third favourite suit.

Father Potter is bouncing on the balls of his feet again, his eyes sparkling and, if I didn’t know better, I would say he’s had a few glasses of wine already. 

I’m sure he can’t have, as he told me that he was signing up to help during the first shift so that he could join me and make the introductions to what he is now calling our parishioners, as if I still have some sort of right to them.

It is foolish of me to let him get under my skin like this. He seems to have everyone - all the guests, the other priests and their fussy housekeeper - eating from the palm of his hand as well. It irritates me.

“Let’s get this over with, so I can go home,” I say.

His face falls and I quickly look away to avoid feeling anything other than contempt for this sort of nonsense.

“I put us on one of the quieter tables. Mr and Mrs Enid are already there. I’m famished. Would you like the lamb, salmon or the vegetarian option?”

“Lamb.”

“Oh, that’s what I chose as well.” He beams at me as though he has discovered we are soul mates. “Come on, let’s take our seats.”

There are coloured fairy lights along the walls and across the ceiling. A dozen or so tables, each draped with a red table cloth, a candle, a bottle of red and white wine, a jug of iced water and a small floral arrangement in the centre.

“What do you think? I got a bit carried away with the lighting concept, at one point I was going to order hanging glass baubles that we could put tea lights in, but it would have ended up costing more than we made from the event.”

“I see.” I am beginning to. I wonder just how much of this is his idea and how many of the people here are his ‘guests’. “You got the wine then,” I say wanting to distance myself from the freeloaders.

“Yes, thank you so much, Mr Malfoy. I was sorry not to have been there when you delivered it. Apparently it’s very good – there have been comments already about the generosity of the donation.” He gives me a look that is at once grateful, disapproving and admiring. I’m not even sure how he manages that.

“Call me Draco, please,” I say, reminding myself that it’s nothing more than self-preservation – the Malfoy name is not exactly greeted with warm smiles wherever I go.

The food is delectable, the best thing I’ve eaten in months. The lamb is tender and mouth-watering. For dessert there is cheesecake and then coffee with little foil-wrapped mints. Mr and Mrs Enid are quiet but loosen up with a glass or two of wine, and we’re also joined by two single ladies and another single man. I don’t catch any of their names as I’m too busy glaring at Father bloody Potter and make sure it’s clear I am not looking for a relationship, even a casual one, with any of them.

But after a while I start to feel relaxed in this company. I don’t think Father Potter meant for me to flirt with him. He looks quite uneasy. It’s his own fault for trying to set me up.

~o~o~o~

Draco’s cheeks are flushed and he looks healthy and happy. He’s funny, too. His brand of humour is dry and sharp. I really must stop drinking the wine if I’m going to manage the final sitting without incident.

Susan seems unmoved, but Hannah appears to be softening towards him. Lee looks uncomfortable, so I turn my attention to him for a while.

I suddenly feel Draco’s hand against my back. He leans around me to say something witty to Hannah. I can’t focus on what it is he’s saying - everything has contracted to that single point of contact. It takes everything I have not to pull away from him. A moment later he leans back and removes his hand and I wish I could have it back again.

My hour is up far too quickly - the final sitting is coming in.

“The bar is open if you want to carry on,” I suggest. “I have to return to my duties.”

Draco’s face which has, up to this point, been open and happy, closes down. He frowns at his empty plate.

“I’ll help,” he says. 

I dart a look at him, but he seems preoccupied with gathering together the plates. “We really could use some help, priests don’t seem to be natural waiters.” Poor Neville dropped an entire tray of cutlery earlier and had to wash it all up before it could be used. At least it wasn’t anything breakable.

I pick up the glasses and we bid our fellow diners goodnight. Hannah looks rather heartbroken, but not enough to turn down an offer of drinks with Lee.

Draco follows me through to the kitchen.

“We have another helper,” I say.

There’s a minute of awkward, almost hostile, silence - like some unspoken rule has been broken, but then Neville comes forward and hands him a tea towel.

It’s odd – Draco acts as though he’s been roped in to doing something he doesn’t want to. I wonder if I misunderstood. Perhaps I was supposed to say that we didn’t need any help. Patently untrue, but I’m often caught out by the insincere offer.

I leave him with Neville, drying plates and glasses, while I deliver food to tables and convince people to part with more money for the raffle and invite them to the summer fete in a few weeks time.

At the end of the evening, when everything is put away, I find Draco outside the kitchen door, smoking a cigarette.

“I didn’t realise that you smoke.”

“I don’t.”

I raise my eyebrows and look pointedly at the cigarette he’s taking a long drag from. He seems to fight a smile - I catch a twitch at the corners of his lips.

“I don’t usually,” he amends.

“Ah, was it a bit of a trying evening? I’m sorry I roped you into the clearing up.”

He raises his own eyebrow, cool and amused. “You didn’t.”

He makes no sense at all to me. “Would you like to walk with me? We’re all finished and cleared away, but I need to unwind.”

He throws his cigarette end on the ground and grinds it out. “Yes.”

He keeps surprising me. Far from being disconcerting, I find I enjoy it. Perhaps it’s just because he doesn’t seem to be angry any more. Not with me, anyway.

“Thank you for your help tonight.”

He waves me off.

“So, will you be coming to the summer fete later in the year?” I ask.

“Hmm, it’s not really my thing. You may have noticed I’m not much of a joiner.”

“I don’t know you did all right tonight. You’re very charming. I think Hannah particularly enjoyed your company.”

He gets his packet of cigarettes out, but he just plays with the box, spinning it between his thumb and middle finger.

“I thought I made it clear I’m not interested,” he says.

“I’m sorry. It really wasn’t my intention to set anyone up with the seating arrangements. I realise you’re a married man, but I don’t think that means you can’t have _friends_.”

He seems to accept this, maybe because he thinks I can’t lie. It’s not a lie - I didn’t even assume they would get along, knowing how prickly Draco can be. Hoped, perhaps.

“I don’t think you could call what I have with Astoria a marriage.”

I feel my heart beat speed up as I recognise an opening.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager.

“Confess?” He seems amused rather than irritated, at least.

I smile at him. “No, just as friends; I hope you consider me a friend.”

“There isn’t much to tell. She left me and took our son with her. We don’t get along very well, funnily enough.”

“Are you still in contact?”

He sighs. “Sometimes. She never lets me talk to Scorpius, though.”

“Do you think-”

“No. Even if she would come back I don’t want her.”

His expression has grown hard, and I think if I push him any further now he’ll end up shutting down again.

“I am very sorry,” I say.

We walk in silence the rest of the way and before I know it we are standing at Draco’s front door. He jiggles his keys in his palm, making them clink together, bringing me back to the present. He’s looking at me in a way that seems contemplative. His eyes are dark, the expression unfathomable, his lips parted slightly as though on the verge of saying something. My nerves seem to buzz. I feel shaken up and out of sorts.

“I should go,” I say, stepping back down onto the safety of the driveway, gravel crunching under my feet.

He gives a brief nod, at least I think he does – it’s dark where he’s standing in the shadow of the doorway. There still seems to be something stretching between us, even as I take my leave.

~o~o~o~

For a moment my heightened awareness of Father Harry that had been driving me mad all evening went into overdrive – I wanted to kiss him. Then he stepped away and broke the spell. Perhaps it was just my overactive imagination – the wine, the moonlight and a full belly – that made me think I wasn’t alone in feeling a sudden sharp desire.

I should have asked him in before he ran away.

No, that’s ridiculous. What is the point of this? I’ve been alone too long. I should have joined the others for drinks, not that I could buy a round. How could I possibly be so stupid as to pursue an attraction like this? It would be wrong in so many ways - not least because he is a priest and I long ago lost my faith in God.

I finally pull myself together and open the door, going straight through to the kitchen and putting the kettle on for tea. There’s no milk, so I cut a shrivelled piece of lemon to go in it.

On the way to the stairs, I finally notice that the answerphone light is flashing. It can’t be Father Harry this time. My hands shake as I press the button and listen to the recording. One message...

“God, Draco, don’t tell me you’ve actually left your cave, fucking hell.” Ah, Pansy. “Listen I need to come and crash at yours for a few days. Blaise is being a total cunt about the bike. I can’t put up with one more round of _you’ll get yourself killed_. Ring me A.S.A.P. Oh, have you heard anything from that bitch of an ex of yours? Speak to you later, darling.”

Hah, she can always be relied on to make me laugh. There was a while, back in school, when I thought we’d end up together. Before I realised that the family had other plans. Not that I was in love with her, nor she with me, but we have known one another and all the most intimate details of each other’s life – including the things that make us want to die of shame – since we were still in nappies. We fit together easily. Our mutual dysfunctionality suits us. 

It’s too late to call her back now. Well, it probably isn’t, but the chances of Blaise answering and being a ‘total cunt’ are high.

I reset the answerphone and go upstairs to bed.

The next morning I have to make the trip in to the Job Centre – a soul sucking pit of despair that I have to pay for the privilege of attending (bus fare £1.30 return) - how far the mighty have fallen. I have to prove that I have been looking for work - not exactly easy being that the Manor is in the middle of nowhere, I have no computer access and am solely reliant on the local newspaper and the village shop for situations vacant. However, I have little else to do but maintain scrupulous records of every application I make, and I provide telephone contacts for them to follow up.

I do the weekly shop at the same time and then head home.

Next on the list is Pansy. I have a fortifying glass of wine first – just in case Blaise answers.

Pansy picks up on the fourth ring.

“What the _fuck_ do you want now?” She shrieks down the phone, in lieu of a greeting.

“My hearing back,” I reply. I always wonder how her mother responds to these outbursts, but she’s probably used to it by now.

“Draco, you utter bastard. You were supposed to ring me back last night.”

“I was out.”

There’s an unearthly screech down the phone line that makes me wince.

“You’ve fucking found someone else.”

“I am, as ever, flattered by your faith, but no.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about, but you’re fucking gorgeous and you know it.”

“When are you coming over?” I ask, trying to derail this line of conversation.

“Give me a couple of hours,” she says, as if she’s the one dropping everything to accommodate me and not the other way round - not that there’s an awful lot for me to drop, but still.

We hang up and I go and look at the guest bedroom she usually uses, it smells damp, it seems like the roof has sprung yet another leak. The rest of the rooms have long been out of use. Unless she wants to live life dangerously she’ll be sharing my bed tonight. Oh good - just what I need.

She finally arrives just after seven in her Lamborghini, the bottom scraping horrifically as she drives over the worst of the potholes, with her suitcase strapped into the passenger seat. She shoves me aside when I try and get all ‘patriarchal’ on her by actually daring to offer to take her case up to the bedroom.

She comes back down, wrinkles her nose up at everything in the cupboards and drags me out to a restaurant.

“Tell me,” she says, as soon as we have our food.

I give her a look and take a mouthful. She scowls at me and drums her fingers against the table.

“Alright. I was at a church thing.”

She gives me a look of such confusion that I can’t help laughing.

“Bloody hell, Draco, you’re not having a... thing... you know... whatever the fuck they call it. You’re not going to turn fucking religious on me.”

“Oh, piss off. There’s a new priest and he won’t leave me alone. I think he’s trying to save my soul or something. I keep telling him it’s too late.” I only feel a slight twinge of discomfort talking about Father Harry this way. Last night all seems so far away - another life. “Anyway, what the fuck are we talking about that for when we could be demolishing Blaise?”

Pansy gives a dramatic sigh, rolls her eyes and drops her forehead on the table. “He is a wanker.”

Something we both agree on.

~o~o~o~

After the excitement of the charity supper, Friday sees me wandering about at a bit of a loss, when I find myself knocking on Neville’s door. He’s the gentlest of the priests I am sharing the rectory with, though I get along with all of them. He’s also slightly hapless – if something happens it’s generally Neville it happens to. His parish is a few miles away and he can often be seen on his bicycle hurrying off to visit with his congregation. The two of us are the only ones who don’t drive.

He invites me in. He’s sitting at his desk writing a letter, which he puts aside as I enter the room.

“You alright, Harry?” he asks. There’s something soothing about his accent, Yorkshire I think. I can imagine him getting the best out of penitents. And maybe for that reason I find myself confessing to him.

“Fine thank you, Father Neville. I’m just, er, wondering about Draco Malfoy”

“Oh.” To my surprise Neville gives me a pained look and drops his gaze.

“Did something happen last night?” I ask.

“No, he was very helpful. Quiet. He didn’t speak to anyone. We did _try_.”

“Oh. He seemed to relax during the meal. Do you think he’s shy?”

Neville snorts and turns it into a cough. “I don’t think that’s the problem.”

“I don’t know that much about him, just what the papers have reported. But Bishop Dumbledore thinks that he needs spiritual help. I’ve been making good headway, I think. He came to mass as well. What did you make of him?”

He hesitates long enough for me to wonder what he could say.

“He wasn’t a very nice boy.”

“You knew him?”

Neville looks down at his hands. “Yes. We went to the same boarding school. We weren’t friends, though.”

I can read between the lines. “It’s strange that you should end up here.”

“I know. Still that’s in the past and what happened to him after school was bad. I heard he was involved in some of the stuff, and the Manor has seen its share of evil. His mum said he had nothing to do with any of it, of course.”

“Do you believe that version of events?” I ask.

Neville looks me in the eye and I can see that he’s struggling with his memories of Draco versus the man he is now. “I don’t know. I mean, I’ve given him the benefit of the doubt, but I haven’t had to go and see him in that place.”

“It makes sense why he wouldn’t be happy there. I wonder why he doesn’t leave.”

“That’ll be his dad’s doing, I reckon.”

“Did you ever meet him?” One look at Neville’s face says it all and I don’t ask him to expand on that. I am starting to get a clearer picture. “Listen, thank you, if you think of anything else that might be helpful will you let me know?”

Neville nods. He stands up and walks out with me and carries on out in to the garden. I watch him with his Nasturtiums and ponder coincidence and fate, unsure of what, if any, link I am trying to make.

~o~o~o~

Pansy is stroking my arse. She’s practically purring.

“It’s like I got my wish after all,” she says.

Not this again. “My cock does not belong to you. The fact that I indulge when you’re here means nothing.”

“You are such a bastard, Draco. I loved you.”

I snort, and she delivers a stinging slap to my backside.

“I did! You were the only one I ever loved. Oh, don’t worry, I grew out of it.”

I run my fingers through her hair. “Blaise loves you.”

“He wants to control me.”

“Don’t be an arse, Pansy. It’s not easy being in love with someone you know will never love you back.”

“I know,” she says, pointedly.

“If I believed that for a moment, I’d almost feel sorry for you. After all, you missed out on having all this,” I say, indicating the shabby furniture and the long cracks in the walls.

She slaps me again and I wince but my cock is trying to get hard again.

“Do you honestly think we’d still be living here if we were together? Just because you’re completely useless and can’t get a job, I have a very good job of my own.”

“Do you think you’d still have that if you were attached to me - if you had the Malfoy name?”

“I wouldn’t _have_ the Malfoy name. God, you’re such a caveman. Maybe you _should_ find religion, it would suit your outdated ideals.”

I sigh and turn off the light. Pansy turns over, facing away from me - she’s not a cuddly sleeper. For the first time ever I wish that she was. Instead of falling asleep with someone warm in my arms, I’m wide awake going over my pathetic excuse for a love life, and she’s manoeuvred me into the wet patch.

I can count the relationships I’ve had on one hand. Not that I was truly in love with a single one of them - Pansy’s about the closest I’ve ever come but, if it was a choice of friend or lover, I would choose her as a friend every time.

Besides, Pansy and Blaise are made for one another. They scream and rage and then they fuck each other’s brains out, but in between the histrionics they adore one another. I would take the credit in bringing them together, but I don’t like to think about it – I hardly wish to relive the memory of a failed threesome. I’m sure Blaise only agreed in the first place so he could finally get his hands on Pansy.

This - what Pansy and I do when she comes to visit - is nothing more than friends doing favours. Blaise has a very limited repertoire and is a firm believer that he should always be on top. I have suggested that he might be a better lover if he took it up the arse just once, but he won’t hear of it. It’s not like I have an unhealthy interest in what they get up to any more, but the fact that Pansy is still throwing me around the bedroom is an indication that things can’t have changed that much.

Where does that leave me? Lying awake, thinking about religion, well, thinking about a certain priest, which is close enough.

~o~o~o~

“There’s someone to see you, Father Harry.” Seamus gives me a strange look, hanging over the threshold of my doorway with a hand either side.

“Oh, do you know who it is?” I look up from the desk. I’ve been trying to read my bible, but I am distracted by thoughts of how to draw Draco Malfoy out of his shell.

“It’s Draco Malfoy. He’s in the little parlour.”

I nod and close my bible, using one of Molly’s embroidered bookmarks to hold my place. “Thank you, Father Seamus, I’ll be right there.”

Seamus nods but lingers, watching me.

“Is there anything wrong?” I ask.

Seamus lets go of the door frame and steps out of the way. “I can hang around if you like.”

I frown, wondering why he would think I need a chaperone. “No, I’m fine, thank you, Father Seamus.”

He still doesn’t make any move to leave, so I turn and head towards the cosy parlour.

The heat rises in my cheeks the moment that I catch sight of Draco and I realise in that moment that I can say what I want when he is not near me, but being in his presence is another matter. He looks as though he is holding back a smirk.

“How can I help you, Draco?”

His eyes widen, perhaps he didn’t expect me to use his first name beyond the night of the supper; perhaps I am not supposed to. It’s a little late to worry about it now.

“I need your help,” he says.

Oh...

I take the other chair and study him for any kind of clue, but he is a closed book to me. I would call him mysterious but that lends him too much of an air of romance. Besides, confusing is closer to the truth.

“It’s good that you felt you could come to me,” I say.

He dips his head, keeping his eyes on mine. “You’ve proved yourself to be true to your word – you haven’t tried to convert me or suggest that my lifestyle is sinful.”

I feel my lips twitch at the mention of his lifestyle. Clearly he knows that his female friend was the main topic of conversation for most of the village last week. And him still a married man. It never ceases to amaze how ready people are to condemn – whether Christian or secular. It is human nature, but a side that I find disheartening.

“I heard you had a friend to visit, recently. I’m glad.”

He appears quite calm; his hands folded together, elbows resting on the worn arms of the chair. “You really expect me to believe that you approve of our relationship?”

Something less Christian and more human twists my insides as I force a smile. “I don’t subscribe to the notion that men and women can’t be friends.”

He is holding back a smirk again. “I see.”

I don’t want to know if he’s teasing me or hinting at the truth, to see how I react, I have no right to feel anything at all, whatever they are to one another, other than to help him if he should confess and repent, right now it seems he’s unready to do either. “You’ve mentioned several times about not wanting to be converted,” I say.

“I said that once; just now, all I said was that you hadn’t attempted it since, and I appreciated that.” He sighs. “Our family used to be heavily involved with the church. Obviously not in an entirely desirable way, but I remember being a boy in the congregation. Sitting in on Sunday morning mass and attending the charity supper both reminded me of what it’s like to be a part of the community. It’s been a long time since I felt welcome anywhere.”

I sit and watch him for a few moments. This can’t have come out of the blue. People don’t _just_ decide to turn to the church these days. There is generally some form of catalyst. It’s unclear to me what that is in this case. I hope that it is something he discussed with his friend.

“In my experience, forcing the issue is more likely to push people away. You’re always welcome here, either way, but if you ever feel that you would like to come back, I’d make it as easy for you as possible. Have you given any thought to giving confession and taking the holy sacrament during mass?”

“Just like that?”

“No, it’s a commitment and it should be given thought. You need to come back of your own free will, not because I asked you to. But I do want you to know that you will be welcomed.” He looks calm and determined, but I can see something else underneath that, something less sure, perhaps even vulnerable. “The sacraments are something that I think will help you. Confession is not a judgement of you - it’s an opportunity for you to take everything that has kept you shut away and for you to give it up to God. If you truly are sorry for what happened then let Him give his forgiveness.”

He has gone very pale and still. I wonder what he is thinking and try not to imagine the things he might need to confess to.

“Whatever it is, Draco, you will be forgiven, if you repent.”

“I’ll think about it, Father,” he says, standing gracefully and holding his hand out to me. “Thank you for your time.”

Considering how badly our first two meetings went, I am caught off balance. I grasp his hand. It’s so cool and soft in mine, which feels suddenly hot and clammy.

“I – I... it’s my pleasure. I mean you’re welcome. And if you need to speak to me about taking the sacraments, you can any time, Draco. My door is always open, as they say.”

He gives me a genuine smile, making my heart lurch unexpectedly, before removing his hand and taking his leave.

~o~o~o~

I underestimated Father Potter. I didn’t think he’d give me an inch and leave me room to take a mile, but I also didn’t expect him to be so able to make me dance to _his_ tune. In under an hour he’s managed to talk me into mass and confession. For someone I complimented on not attempting to convert me, he’s done a rather splendid job of making it difficult to avoid.

And so I find myself once more among the congregation, listening to another sermon, and this time Father Harry Potter’s eyes find me, and it seems for a moment that he is talking to me, though I barely hear the words. It doesn’t matter I remember the story of the prodigal son well enough...

I glare up at him. He’s not looking at me anymore, but I can’t take my eyes off him. When he speaks it seems to come straight from his heart. I could listen to him for hours talking like this... not that I agree with every word out of his mouth, but there’s something so compelling about him. 

Confession is held on Wednesday and Saturday each week. I want to put it off indefinitely, but I want to see him again. I don’t know how he has got under my skin the way he has. He is an irritation.

~o~o~o~

I am expecting Draco at confession, but it still catches me by surprise when he is there, kneeling by the screen, asking me to bless him for he has sinned. I recognise his voice at once – I hadn’t realised how attuned to tone and inflection I am.

I glance at him from the corner of my eye. There’s no mistaking his fair hair – his head is bowed, his hands clasped in front of him. I can feel his tension, and I can only imagine how difficult it must have been to come today. Despite my offer to discuss this with him, he has chosen not to.

“I’m very glad that you are here, Draco.”

He looks up at me through the screen, I catch the movement but I don’t return the look.

“I took your advice, Father, and I thought about whether I wanted to connect with the church again. I do. It’s been... I think it’s been twelve years since my last confession. There is a lot to confess.”

“I’m not here to judge you.”

“Aren’t you?”

I sigh. “No, I’m not. That’s not for any of us to do.”

Draco is silent long enough for me to wonder if he’s changed his mind about making confession. “Draco? Are you ready for this?”

He clears his throat. “Yes, I... give me a moment.” The emotion in his voice is clear.

“You can take as long as you want, Draco. I’m here.”

I listen to him moving, soft whispering sounds and the harsher sound of his breathing as he struggles with his emotions. I suddenly, inexplicably, wish that the partition wasn’t between us. I want to suggest a private meeting for confession, remembering how comforting it was to kneel at Father Remus’ feet. I want to stroke my hand over soft blond hair and absolve him of everything.

“I’ve committed the sin of pride,” he says. “I put myself above others.”

“Do you want to share examples?” I ask, not wanting to hear a shopping list of sins.

“When I brought the wine for the supper; I didn’t want to be your charity case.” His voice has become cold and hard, but I think I’m getting the measure of Draco Malfoy.

“I see-”

“I haven’t finished,” he says, his voice sharp, cutting me off. “Don’t interrupt me.”

“Very well,” I say, keeping my voice low, hoping he won’t start shouting so that the rest of the church can hear him.

I hear him shifting about again.

“I committed the sin of adultery with my friend, Pansy. It wasn’t a one off - we have been doing it for years. But I don’t love her. She doesn’t love me either. It isn’t the reason that Astoria left me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

I don’t know what to think. I feel sick. I didn’t listen to the gossip among my parishioners. I forced it away as idle, jealous, un-Christian.

“I don’t know why I do it - maybe just for a moment of connection. I can’t vouch for Pansy’s reasons.”

“Are you going to stop?” I ask, interrupting him again.

“Yes, that is the point of this, is it not?” he says, annoyed.

“Some people use it as a salve to their conscience with no real intention of changing their pattern of behaviour. That is human nature.”

“I intend to change the pattern.”

“Have you given much thought to how you will deal with the temptation?”

He takes a deep breath. “I’ll sleep elsewhere in the house.”

“I see, I think that’s wise.”

I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He seems to be looking at me intently, and I wish I knew what he was thinking.

“May I carry on?”

I do look at him then, his hands are clasped beneath his chin. I can’t see his eyes, and it makes an eerie impression. “Yes, Draco, go on.”

“I suppose I must also add impure thoughts.”

“You have-”

“Of course I have, doesn’t everyone? Even you.”

I blush and have to suppress the urge to blurt out a denial. “That’s none of your business.”

“Human nature,” he says, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. “I have had impure thoughts about someone I can’t have.”

I can’t help wondering who it might be. Perhaps it’s just this Pansy woman again, though it seems strange to start with the greater sin of adultery and then admit to impure thoughts. But who else could it be?

“Have you acted on these feelings in any way?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, sounding genuinely confused.

“Have you altered your life to be closer to them? Throw yourself into their path, that sort of thing, in the hope that something might happen.”

“Oh, I see. Yes, I have.”

“Is that something you will try to avoid from now on?”

He doesn’t speak again for a long time. I can sense someone in the other confessional, waiting patiently for their turn, but I don’t hurry Draco along.

“That would be rather difficult.”

“Then you will need to try and control your thoughts, if it’s impossible to avoid this person. Is there anything more, Draco?”

“Isn’t that enough to be going on with?” It’s clear that he won’t share anything more today, though it feels like we’ve hardly scratched the surface of everything that is troubling him. He’s not even mentioned his family. But I don’t want to push him too hard.

“Yes, that is enough to be going on with.”

I guide him through the act of contrition, give him a number of Hail Mary’s to say and offer the Prayer of Absolution.

“That’s it?” he asks.

“Yes, I hope you’ll come back again.”

“I expect so,” he says, and then he is gone.

~o~

As soon as Confession is over I spend an hour sitting with Jesus, contemplating my own sins. Draco Malfoy could derail my thoughts and test my resolve, if I let him.

Finally, when I can no longer stand to sit and stare at Jesus gazing down at me sorrowfully from his cross, I head back to the rectory.

Ron latches on to me straight away. “Hi Harry, there’s a message by the phone for you.”

“Oh, right, thanks.”

“Malfoy.” He pulls a face.

“Don’t do that,” I say.

“What?”

“Doesn’t everyone deserve a second chance if they ask for it?” It’s no wonder Bishop Dumbledore chose me for this.

“You don’t know what he was like. He might be all meek and mild now, but back then he was as bad as his dad.”

“He’s not meek and mild, anything but. I still think he deserves another chance. He came to confession today.”

Ron looks like his eyes might fall right out of his head. “Then how can you go on defending him when you know _everything_?”

I push my glasses up and pinch the bridge of my nose.

It’s not a sin. My hands are tied on this. The rules are clear – I couldn’t tell Ron about Draco’s confession even if I wanted to.

He takes my silence for agreement and carries on. “Anyway, we’re having a game of Monopoly, want to play?”

“Another time,” I say. Ron shrugs and wanders off again. I know I should make more of an effort, but I don’t think I could sit and concentrate right now. I’m not the only one: Neville is on his hands and knees weeding his garden and tending to his plants and flowers with gentle hands. I don’t feel like joining him either.

I go and check the message pad, surprised to see that Draco has asked me to visit him. I try not to draw any conclusions from that, though several thoughts cross my mind. The message doesn’t say when I am supposed to visit. I think of going and asking Ron, but decide to interpret it as an open invitation instead.

It’s a little past two when I start out for the Manor. Low lying clouds darken the sky and I belatedly remember my umbrella, in the hall stand, with the first spots of rain.

Draco opens the door as I approach. There’s something that scares me in his expression, and I realise with a jolt of sick fascination that his haughty expression is remarkably like his father’s in the pictures I’ve seen in the papers. The thought sends a shiver down my spine and I falter as I reach the steps.

“Father,” he says his voice cold and hard.

“Draco,” I reply. I walk up the steps, slowly. The rain has started falling harder now and I’m getting wet, but still I’m reluctant to go inside.

“Come in. I’ve opened a bottle of wine,” he says, and suddenly it seems obvious. There’s a telltale flush of colour in his cheeks. I wonder how many bottles he’s got through before I arrived.

I hurry inside, rubbing my wet hair with my hands as I step inside. It seems colder inside than out.

“Come through to the kitchen. It’s warmer there,” Draco says, noticing my failed attempts not to shiver and leading the way.

The door immediately to the right of the front door is open. It’s always been closed before. My curiosity gets the better of me and I glance in as I trail behind Draco. A grand piano dominates a room too small for it. I suppose it must have been moved from another room in the house, which only adds to the impression I have of the place falling into disrepair.

“Do you play?” I ask, unable to stop myself, the idea of Draco sitting at the piano an enticing one.

“I used to. It’s too out of tune now.” His voice is hard-edged again – I’ve touched a raw nerve.

“I’m sorry. You know, I may be able to get someone to come and tune it for you,” and then remembering his aversion to charity, I add, “and, in return, we need someone to sit in for our organist when he’s on holiday.”

“I have no idea how to play a church organ,” he says, his voice cold.

“I could arrange lessons.”

He doesn’t answer so I let it drop for the moment.

The kitchen is warm. There’s a small radiator next to the long wooden table, which is flanked by two upholstered benches. It’s more home-y than I had expected.

“Please, take a seat,” Draco says.

There’s an opened bottle of wine on the table, it hasn’t been started but it’s clear his glass has already been used. He goes to a cupboard and takes out a glass for me.

“You will join me, won’t you?”

“Yes, of course.” I have the fleeting, idiotic notion that at whatever I drink is a glass less for him, but I haven’t seen his wine cellar. If he could bear to part with three cases for the charity supper he must still have a lot down there.

“Can I ask that this is treated as confession?” he asks, as he pours us both a glass.

I hesitate, but I have no choice in the matter. “No, I can’t do that, unless you have just reason.”

Draco shakes his head. “I thought that would be your answer, but I wanted to know for sure.” He sits down opposite me and regards me with a cool expression. “I wasn’t expecting you to come so soon. Don’t you have other duties?”

“There is a lot to do, but I was in need of a walk and this seemed like a good direction to walk in, especially when it started raining.” I give him a smile that he doesn’t return.

“It wasn’t a matter of urgency.”

“Well, I’m here now, so what was it you wanted to see me about?”

“You’re aware of my situation. I’m not going to ask how you came about that knowledge. I have a good idea who it is coming from, but you don’t know all of it.”

“Draco, you’re wrong. All I know is what was reported in the papers and that Bishop Dumbledore wanted me to try and befriend you because he’s worried about you. I don’t even know if anyone else visited you before.”

He frowns. “Don’t you question anything?”

“More than you know, but not this. If you want to tell me anything you can, but I won’t force you. I have faith that Bishop Dumbledore knows what he’s doing. I have faith that God has a plan for me in all this.”

“So you never accept responsibility for anything?”

“No, I didn’t say that. I have choice. That’s the... that’s the whole point. We all have a choice on how we conduct ourselves. If you told me to commit a sin I wouldn’t just do it.”

It’s very warm in the kitchen, now. I have to remove my jumper. When I fight my way out of slightly damp wool, Draco gives me an appraising look that makes me squirm with anxiety.

“I don’t understand how you can allow anyone to dictate your actions,” he says. “Suppose everything you were taught was wrong? What if the natural order of things is to give in to whatever temptation puts in your path and _that’s_ how you will reach Paradise.”

He pours himself another glass of wine and tops mine up.

“I know it’s difficult to understand.” I feel like I’ve been backed into a corner. I’m on the defensive and I believe I have just insulted Draco by insinuating that the idea of faith is too difficult for him to grasp. “I struggle with it all the time.”

“It’s not difficult to understand, it’s patently ridiculous to have that level of blind faith.”

I feel my hackles rising.

“Did you want me to come here just so that you could question my beliefs? I don’t care if you don’t believe in anything. I keep telling you I’m not here to convert you.”

“You could have fooled me,” Draco says, narrowing his eyes at me.

This is ridiculous. I get up and start struggling back into the jumper I took off less than five minutes ago.

“Oh and you’re just going to run away now that I’ve questioned your mindless acceptance - how predictable.”

“I’m not running away.”

Draco just folds his arms and regards my dishevelled state with that cool expression.

“Fine,” I sit down again and glower back at him. “What happened between this morning and now? You seemed able to accept some of this before, what’s changed, other than you imbibing far too much wine in the interim?”

“My, those are some big words.” Draco arches an eyebrow at me.

I attempt a smirk, but it makes my face feel ridiculously wrong. “We do have a thesaurus at the rectory.”

He laughs and the tension between us evaporates.

“I don’t take kindly to being told what to do. I spent my childhood believing that everything I was told was the truth; that every single person my father punished deserved it. I was not a pleasant child. I am not a particularly pleasant man, but at least I know my weaknesses.”

I finish my wine. “Do you have any tea?”

“Bags only, I’m afraid.”

“That’s fine,” I say, but Draco wrinkles his nose up.

I make a note to bring some tea leaves with me the next time I’m invited. I’m pretty sure we have some at the rectory, but none of us bothers.

We move on to lighter topics of conversation and manage to avoid irritating each other anymore.

~o~o~o~

Harry (I suppose I won’t go to hell for leaving the Father out when I’m thinking about him) makes tea in the pot and presses a cup into my hands. He throws the last of the wine down the sink and rinses the bottle for recycling.

“Will you sit down?” I say. “I dislike being waited on in my own kitchen.”

“Sorry, force of habit.”

Hmm, that’s interesting. Can’t be from the rectory, they have a housekeeper who seems very clear that there are boundaries never to be crossed.

“Where did you grow up?”

He doesn’t answer straight away, electing to sip his tea instead, but I know a delaying tactic when I see it.

“Little Whinging, just outside London. One of those places where all the houses look identical apart from the position of the garden gnomes and the pattern on the net curtains.”

“Net curtains?”

“Oh yes, all the better to spy on the neighbours. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t talk about them like that.”

“You should if it’s true,” I say. “You should meet my friend, Pansy, she would make your hair stand on end.”

To my immense relief he laughs and says “I bet she would.”

I am blushing remembering the only reason why he knows who I’m talking about. “Perhaps I shouldn’t talk about Pansy.”

“No, Draco, it’s alright - she’s a friend, isn’t she?”

“Yes, my best friend. Well, Pansy and Blaise both. We went to school together.”

He pours himself another cup of tea. “That must be nice.”

“Nice isn’t really a word I associate with either of them, but I’m glad to have them.”

“I lived with my aunt and uncle,” he says. “They weren’t very nice people.”

“Oh?”

“They did like me to wait on them in the kitchen.” He makes it sound like a joke, but I can tell it’s anything but, something about the way his shoulders tense every time he mentions them.

“What happened?”

“I left as soon as I could. I was lucky really the church had been there for me since I was eleven. Father Remus helped me to apply to the seminary. He helped me with a lot of things.”

I get the feeling he is holding something back and I am desperate to know what it is.

“What was he like, Father Remus?”

“Patient, kind, but he could be firm when he needed to be.” He has a soft expression on his face. I wonder who this Father Remus is and whether he deserves that look. Harry looks at his watch and makes a face. “I need to get back for Vespers.”

He gets up and starts to hold his hand out to me but seems to think better of it. I stand up as well and hold my hand out to him. He smiles as he shakes it warmly. I hold it for far too long; the moment I let go, I can feel the ghosts pressing in from all sides and I can hear my father’s voice.

~o~

_He’s with a man who’s been here a lot of times before, but this time the man is strapped into a big wooden chair I’ve never seen before. It looks a bit like an electric chair. Maybe it’s supposed to; the man looks so scared. I don’t know if I’m shaking more from the cold or the fear of what my father will do to me if he finds me here. I cling to the wall and press my cheek against it. It’s clammy, like it’s sweating. Like the man is sweating, I can see it running down his face, even though it’s so cold down here._

_Father’s hand is curled around the man’s chin, pulling it up so high it looks like it hurts when he swallows and father is leaning in close to his ear. He’s smiling and speaking so softly. It’s the same voice he uses when he says goodnight to me._

_The man moans. I thought he was a ghost. I was going to find him and set him free or tell mother and she would do it. But he’s not a ghost. I can see the way his skin is stretched taut over his throat as he swallows again._

_I hadn’t noticed the knife. My father slides it across the man’s neck, right across his adam’s apple. There’s so much blood and he’s making horrible wet gurgling noises. Father makes the same face he made when he found the dead mouse Katkins had left for him._

_“Come here, Draco,” he says._

_I’m falling, I think I’m falling, or the wall is sliding away from me._

~o~o~o~

I can’t stop thinking of the way Draco held onto me like he was about to drown the moment I let go. It’s that which has me making a return journey to the Manor again straight after evening prayers.

If the place appears daunting in daylight, in the twilight it is like something from a gothic horror.

I try my hardest to tread lightly on the steps to the front door, but I can feel something is wrong even before I notice that it is standing ajar. I rap on the knocker and shout Draco’s name, trying to dispel the sense of unease that has taken hold of me. It’s likely he has stepped out to see to something in the grounds. Or perhaps he didn’t shut it properly after I left. I wish I had looked back to see if he was still standing there, but I told myself it would be a bad idea.

There’s no answer to my shouts or the knocking. My gut tells me he’s not outside. I pass the threshold. None of the lights are on and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness in the hall.

He’s probably in the kitchen. As soon as I can see well enough I stride through the entrance hall and along the even darker corridor that leads to the kitchen. I knock and call his name again, then fling the door wide open when there’s no answer.

For a moment I don’t think he’s in there. The light from the lamp is inadequate, leaving vast areas of dark shadows. It’s only that he has such fair hair that I notice him on the floor. The stench hits me at the same time.

“Draco!”

I want to pull him up out of the mess of vomit he’s lying in, but I have to check to see if he’s hurt... if he’s still breathing.

My hands are shaking as I try to find his pulse. He’s passed out. He’s just passed out. From the alcohol, it must be. He doesn’t seem hurt otherwise and I lift him up. He’s all sharp angles, flopping everywhere, but I manage to get him into the sitting room where we had our first meeting.

He’s too long to fit comfortably on the sofa, so I put him on the rug trying to remember the recovery position. I want to clean him up, but I have to ring an ambulance and I don’t even know where the phone is. I’ve never felt the need for a mobile phone before, but right now it would be a Godsend.

He screams and I nearly leap out of my skin.

I don’t know what nightmares he is trying to get away from, but when I go to touch him he lashes out screaming _no_.

“It’s me. It’s Harry. Father Harry.”

It takes a while for him to calm down.

“Draco, what happened?” I ask, even though I have a fair idea.

He looks even more dreadful than usual. He squeezes his eyes shut and he looks as though he’s in pain. “Too much to drink,” he says through clenched teeth.

“I realise that. It seemed like you thought I was someone else when you came round.”

“Nothing. I need water.” He almost sounds like his usual prickly self, but I can still feel the sense of something frightening underneath that - a monster under the bed, so to speak.

He won’t let me help him up, I suspect because of his heightening awareness of the state he is in.

“Don’t move, Draco, please. I will come and find you if you go running off while I’m getting you some water and I have a feeling you don’t want that.”

He gives me a foul look, but I find it more reassuring than anything.

It feels like ages, but it only takes me a couple of minutes and when I come back Draco is exactly where I left him, except that he’s wrapped in a blanket and he’s obviously removed his clothes and put them somewhere. I try not to look at his pale, thin legs and bare feet. 

“Here,” I hand him the water. “Do you think you can move?”

He gulps down the water in one go, before I can stop him.

“Of course I can move.”

“Oh good, well then, you can tell me where your phone is so that I can call the rectory and let them know I am staying, and then I’m going to move you up to your bedroom. You can’t sleep in here, it’s freezing.”

“I am perfectly well, thank you. I had a little too much to drink-”

“You’re still swaying.”

He pushes himself into a more upright position. He looks like death warmed over as Mrs Figg used to say. He’s looks as though he’s fighting the urge to be sick again.

I’m not sure how it’s possible to be sick with any kind of dignity, but somehow Draco manages it. He reminds me of a cat, arching his back and depositing the contents of his stomach, including all of the water he’s just drunk, into a nearby vase.

“I never did like that vase,” he says, wiping his mouth on the corner of the blanket.

I can’t help laughing.

“I’m not leaving you here alone.”

He shuts his eyes again and nods slightly.

“The phone?”

“In the hallway, tucked away behind the stairs.”

“And are there any lights in this place?”

“I haven’t replaced the bulbs. You get used to it after a while.”

I hold my tongue, but I can’t believe he has been living like this. It makes my chest hurt. I need to get him out of here or do _something_.

I make a quick call, ignoring the questions for the most part. I know there will be even more in the morning.

Draco is drifting off to sleep and moans softly when I tuck an arm around him to haul him up to the bedroom. Thankfully the lamp by his bedside is working still. Of course he wants more water and I have to make a dash back downstairs, leaving him propped up among the pillows. I find the bathroom and soak a flannel to clean off the worst of the mess.

I sit next to him and we have a fight over who’s going to administer the water, but he’s never going to win that in the state he’s in.

I’m too aware of the intimacy of the situation and I hate myself for it. He’s tucked in against my side, and even though I try to concentrate on the way his elbow is digging painfully into my ribs, all I can think about is the way he moves with just a press of my hand to guide him. How soft his skin feels under my fingertips, where the blanket has fallen away. I rub circles into his shoulder and the guilt of feeling anything other than compassion isn’t enough to make me stop.

Fortunately for me he’s still too drunk to notice my reaction to him. He gives up on the water and slumps against my shoulder.

It’s going to be a long night.

~o~o~o~

Fuck. _Fuck_. I haven’t been that drunk since I was nineteen. Everything hurts. I have a bruise down my left side that I have no idea how I got.

Harry is snoring, his glasses are on my bedside table; without them he looks odd - vulnerable. I would spend longer studying him like this if my bladder didn’t feel close to rupturing.

He’s still asleep when I get back from the bathroom - relieved, washed and with a far fresher mouth. I wonder when he finally gave in to the tiredness. I get back under the covers and he mumbles something incomprehensible. I wonder how much it would take to wake him.

A fingertip along his jaw doesn’t even make him stir. His chin is rough with stubble. I’m willing to bet he is a lot hairier under his clothes than I am. I run my fingertip down to the collar of his shirt. I don’t quite dare unbutton it, so I have to make do with slipping a finger inside. He is wearing a vest or a t-shirt underneath, but even so I can feel hair curling against the fabric, a little higher and it is peeking out over the top.

I long to undress him and kiss his chest, rub my face against it. I remove my fingers. He doesn’t seem any closer to waking, but I spend far too long torturing myself with the ways in which I would like to touch him but can’t... won’t. I flop back against the pillows, everything below the waist and above the knee aches. My cock feels like it is held in an ever tightening vice; my balls drawn up tight. It’s never like this with a woman. It doesn’t send me mad just to touch and smell. Harry smells of wine, incense, sweat and something darker and earthier underneath and something even beyond that. Something... he’s aroused. 

Not awake. I don’t think so. He is restless, shifting in his sleep. I wonder what would happen now if I were to touch him. Maybe he sensed it earlier.

I have to... I wrap my hand around my cock, stroking myself agonisingly slowly as Harry frowns and opens his eyes.

For a moment we stare at one another like startled deer. I know what I must look like even to his confused eyes. I catch the darting glance to my lips. I hold my breath, waiting, and I can see him retreating even though he’s still got his head on my pillow.

“Good morning,” he says; his voice more distant than I’ve ever heard it. “How are you feeling?”

“Awful,” I say, knowing he’ll misinterpret that as admission of a hangover.

He puts on his glasses and gets up out of my bed. Whatever he does to calm things down works well, either that or he wasn’t as affected as I thought. Harry runs his hands through his hair and it’s worse than ever, sticking up in every direction.

“I’m going to the bathroom and then I’ll go and get breakfast.”

The idea of eating makes my stomach turn, but I just nod and watch him leave the room.

A few strokes is all it takes - a few strokes and the image of his bright, green eyes trying to focus on my face and on my lips. I can’t suppress the cries as I reach my long overdue climax.

~o~o~o~

I shut the door and lean back against it. My legs feel weak. I feel like Bambi learning to walk for the first time. I can’t believe I managed to get out of there. I can hear Draco bringing himself off, though he must know I can hear him. He’s not exactly quiet. Even if I were half way down the stairs I would be able to hear him.

I wish I hadn’t made it out of there. I wish that I could have seen him in the grip of ecstasy. It must have been something to behold.

Those sorts of thoughts are no good. Fluttering excitement gives way to churning anxiety.

I push myself away from the door and make my way to the bathroom.

Breakfast is toast and marmalade with mugs of cheap coffee, and I find some paracetamol still in date. I clean up the kitchen while I am there. I know I’m ignoring what happened but I can’t do anything about it right now. I should never have stayed there on the bed while Draco fell asleep. There was a perfectly serviceable chair that would have been fine.

I open every closed door I pass. It’s far worse than I had imagined. The place must have been falling into disrepair for a lot longer than the decade or so that Draco has been master. And honestly I can’t blame his wife for wanting to take Scorpius away from this place. The contents of the kitchen cupboards are enough evidence that there is no money to spare – everything is cheap or past its use by date and there isn’t enough to fill one cupboard entirely. It’s no wonder he’s so thin and bony.

There must be something I can do to help him. I am pondering the possibility of a work project to bring the village together, and if it helps build bridges between Draco and the rest of the villagers so much the better. I’ve managed to push all my inappropriate thoughts deep down, until I walk into the room. He’s fallen asleep again. He looks exhausted even as he sleeps.

I put the tray down on the side of the bed I had occupied - fully clothed and on top of the covers - and reach out to touch his shoulder.

“Draco, I need to go now, but I’ve brought you some breakfast.” He opens his eyes and stares at me. I start straightening the bed, all brisk and businesslike until I realise I remind myself of Aunt Petunia. “Why don’t you come and see me at the rectory today?”

Draco sits up in bed and I try not to look at his chest. I try to stop thinking about how naked he is under the covers, but I’m blushing, I can feel it.

“Alright, what time?” Draco asks, sounding bored, but there’s a hint of amusement around his lips.

“Two o’clock?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“As long as it’s alright for you, then I suppose I’m telling you. But, listen, Draco, I’m not going to order you about. Only come if you want to, alright?”

Draco grins at me. “Of course, I’ll see you at two sharp.”

As I set off for the church, I think about Cedric Diggory for the first time in years.

~o~

_I glance over at Cedric’s straight back, and up at the mirror above the organ. He catches my glance and winks. I have to stifle a giggle. It wouldn’t be right for an altar boy to giggle._

_I love putting on the black cassock and the starched white surplice and carrying out my duties. It’s hard not to commit the sin of pride every time. Usually I fail and have to add it on to confession._

_Cedric’s new - a tenor in the church choir - but this morning he’s standing-in for our regular organist and the shock of him playing that awe-inspiring instrument is the most thrilling thing I’ve ever experienced. I wouldn’t even know where to start with the vast array of keyboards, pedals and stops, sending glorious full-bodied sound through the mass of pipes above. Seeing him playing is giving me butterflies. He looks calm but the sound is anything but._

_I love him with all my heart. In a way that I’ve only ever felt when looking at Christ, before: an intense longing that makes my heart pound so hard it seems like everyone must be able to hear it or sense it._

_And then I feel the crushing shame of thinking that my heart belongs to Cedric, even for a moment. It’s promised to God. I’ve known since I was twelve that I wanted to devote my life to God. He’s always, always been there for me when I needed him. I have been tempted and I betrayed him without a thought._

~o~

I return to the rectory from the church and seek out Neville or Ron. I find them both lounging on a bench in the garden with a pot of tea and a packet of biscuits between them.

“Hello, you two. Can I join you?”

“We were talking about you. Actually the whole village has been talking about you,” Ron says, shoving a biscuit in his mouth whole.

“Oh?” I hope I appear unconcerned.

Neville frowns. “Like there’s nothing better to do.” There is a pair of gardening gloves hanging over the arm of the bench, though it doesn’t seem as though Neville’s started work yet.

“Well, I was hoping you wouldn’t mind sharing some of your memories of him growing up. He seems open to my friendship. I think he’s lonely.”

Ron looks aghast. “You’re not really going to try and make friends with him, are you?”

“Of course I am! I couldn’t turn him away and I don’t want to. And you haven’t seen the state of the Manor or the way he’s living.”

“Well, maybe it’s divine retribution for his sins.” Ron’s words are like a slap. They seem to reverberate around the garden.

“He was still a boy when his father was arrested,” I say.

“And he was a right git before that. Sorry. I mean he was not a nice bloke, right Neville?”

Neville grimaces, but he nods. “He was a bully, mostly words. His mates were the ones who did the physical stuff.”

“Thought they were better than the rest of us,” Ron chimes in. “He was always going on about my family being poor and look at him now.” Ron gives a sudden savage grin. I’m not entirely sure he’s suited to the priesthood. 

“Don’t you think that everyone deserves a second chance? I don’t think he’s anything like the boy you knew back then.”

They both give me the same dubious look.

“If you say so,” Ron says, pulling a face.

“What else do you want to know, Harry?” Neville picks up his gardening gloves and starts playing with them, and I recognise it for what it is – he’s going to tell me things that still hurt him.

“I need to know your side. If he needs to face things that he did.”

Neville nods. “Alright, I’ll tell you about the Malfoys.” I pour him another cup of tea. Ron is rubbing Neville’s shoulder comfortingly. “His dad was highly thought of to begin with, but that was because no-one knew what was going on at the Manor. Course we were just children, so we didn’t have a clue, but Draco and his mates made bullying a blood sport. They’d set their sights on you for a term and then they wouldn’t stop. Wi’ Draco it was always words, digging in under your skin. It was always my parents. He’d tell me I’d end up in the loony bin with them. His dad was one of the lot that put my parents there. I didn’t find out ‘til after.”

“Oh, Neville, I’m so sorry.” 

He looks on the verge of tears and Ron is squeezing Neville’s shoulder so hard his fingers are turning white. Neville twists his gardening gloves together and nods.

“It’s alright he says.” It’s not. It’s really not. No wonder he didn’t want to talk about it. No wonder he doesn’t like Draco.

“They killed my brother,” Ron says. “Not that anyone could prove anything, but his family was all involved. So you’ll have to forgive me if my heart doesn’t bleed for the poor little rich boy.”

There’s nothing I can say. I can’t bring myself to ask them to forgive the son for the sins of the father.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll try and make sure we meet elsewhere, so you don’t have to see him again.”

“It’s alright, Harry. If he truly wants to repent then it’s a good thing.” Neville finishes his tea and pulls on his gloves, signalling the end of the conversation.

“I will. If you ever want to talk things over-”

“I’ve got it covered, Harry, we all have,” Ron says, cutting me off. “If you’re going to be talking to him here then let us know so we can make ourselves scarce, alright?”

“Right, yes,” I say. I stand up and smooth down my shirt. “I’ll see you later then.”

I go up to my room and close the door. I sit at the end of the bed and look at Christ on the cross above my desk. “Help me,” I say. “I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing, here. I know I was given this task by Bishop Dumbledore, but what if he’s wrong? Ron and Neville knew him as a boy, is it possible that he was involved in any of the things his father did? But they said... they did say that he didn’t have anything to do with physical violence at school. Am I just looking for excuses because...” I can’t finish the thought.

I wish Father Remus was here, but he’s been dead for years. Dead like Cedric; dead like Sirius; dead like my parents; dead like Draco’s mother.

“Sometimes I don’t understand the design. It’s relentless, this life. Sometimes I think that I chose you because you’re so much easier.”

I wipe my face and take a shaky breath.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t mean that. I love you.”

~o~o~o~

I wasn’t imagining it. Father Harry Potter wants me as much as I want him. But right now he is looking at me as if I am an unpredictable animal and he has placed himself behind the protective barrier of a desk. I had imagined all of our conversations being held in the small, cosy parlour we met in last time, a pot of tea between us.

He looks at me too hard, as though he’s daring himself not to look away because that would give the game away, wouldn’t it?

I stretch my legs out and cross my ankles. He watches the movement before remembering he’s supposed to be watching my face. I have no idea what he thinks I am going to do, but the fact he’s so easily distracted by my ankles – or is it my feet? – is reassuring.

“Is there any particular reason you feel the need to sit right over there?” I ask, using what I remember to be my mother’s sniffiest tone of voice. “Afraid I’ll bite?”

His expression changes into one of annoyance. “Of course not, I just... there are a few things I need to deal with as we talk.”

I allow myself a curl of the lip. “Perhaps I should come back later, when you’re not so busy.”

“No,” he says, half rising from his chair, anxiety clear in his face. “No, please stay, Draco.”

The way he begs sends a delicious shiver down my spine. “Very well, but when you are finished I would like you to come and sit here with me.” I indicate the space beside me on the long blue sofa.

“Alright,” he nods. He’s shuffling papers, pretending to do whatever it is.

I sigh and lean my head back, looking up at a perfect ceiling unmarred by watermarks or cracks.

“Yes, right, well... I want to know how I can help you, Draco,” he says.

“I would have thought it would be quite obvious, after last night.” Just like ripping a plaster off: fucking painful. I have to rub the back of my neck as a lump lodges itself in my throat. It’s humiliating that he’s seen as much as he has, which is far more than anyone else ever has, and without my even understanding how he has burrowed his way in.

“Are you alright?”

“Not really, no. That is why I came.”

“I’m sorry, would you like anything - a glass of water or some tea?”

“No.” I rub my neck again, then lean back and close my eyes. “I found out what my father was doing when I was seven. I had been reading ghost stories, M R James, and frightened myself half out of my wits. So when I heard the moaning I thought the Manor was haunted. That’s how I found out what he was capable of and, the thing was, he knew that I was there. He knew and he didn’t stop to send me back to my bed, he let me see it all... and _hear_ it and _smell_ it. I’d seen the man around the Manor a few times before, but apparently he was trying to bring down Voldemort - getting close to him through my father - so father slit his throat.”

There is a loud intake of breath, but I don’t open my eyes and he doesn’t say anything.

“Needless to say I was even more terrified of my father from that moment on. I knew he was frustrated with such a small, frightened, weak, sensitive child for a son. After that night, I learnt very quickly how to be the son he wanted. I could be cruel – I had a knack for that – and what I couldn’t do myself I manipulated friends to provide. I managed to talk two big, rather stupid boys into being my hired muscle, as it were.”

I have run out of words. I don’t have the ability to say anything further. I open my eyes and look at Harry, questioning. _Well, what happens next?_

He removes his glasses and rubs a hand across his face. He comes out from behind his desk and sits next to me.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” he says. 

“Why? You weren’t there. Had you been I’m sure I would have been every bit as vile to you as I was to some of your fellow priests. You have spoken to them about me, no doubt, and I wouldn’t expect them to hold back.”

“Uh, yes, I was curious. But they had no idea what was going on.”

“Oh, well, I am sure another boy in my situation would have reacted differently. I was never strong-”

Harry makes a noise. “You were seven years old. You were doing what you could to survive. It could have gone another way if you’d had someone to help you and guide you. But you didn’t.”

He’s so earnest; so quick to forgive. I really don’t deserve it. For a while I enjoyed ruling the playground and going home to my father’s praise _a real asset to the family name_. I’m suddenly glad that I didn’t know him back then. Who would have been here in his place?

“There was worse to come.”

Harry grimaces and I can see him thinking _how much worse could it get than a seven year old boy witnessing his father murdering another man?_ But then he never knew the self-styled _Lord_ Voldemort. The man terrified me. His appearance would have been enough to give me nightmares – he had an obsession with snakes and human perfection - he seemed to be trying to turn himself into a snake with body modifications right down to removing his nose, leaving just two slits, and having his tongue forked. He had a pet that he would take everywhere and once, over dinner, I witnessed it squeezing the life out of a woman. I am not going to tell Harry about all of these things - enough that he knows as much as he does.

“I was inducted into the group on my sixteenth birthday. I had been recognised as having great potential, thanks to the way I behaved at school - my father had put my name forward. Mother was devastated. She ordered my godfather to do what he could to shield me. I doubt I would have lasted a month...”

Harry’s thoughts are written all over his face. He covers my hand with his, curling his fingers around the side. This thing between us is there, so clear, but it’s not sharp and urgent like it was this morning. I wonder which of us will voice it first. I fold my fingers under, so that it seems more like we are holding hands. 

Harry draws his hand away, slowly, squeezing my forearm as he pulls back.

“You’ve told me a lot of things that must have been very difficult to share. How do you feel about it, now that you have?”

“I’m fine. It’s in the past and after I was inducted I found my desire to play at being like my father diminished. I couldn’t do the things they wanted me to, not when it was real and had lasting consequences.”

“Don’t you think that what you were doing before – the bullying – had lasting consequences?”

I look down at my hand, still curled as if round an invisible one. “I never thought about it.”

“I know you don’t mean that. Draco, I’ve spoken with some of your victims and they still feel the effects of your words, even if they don’t bear any visible scars. And they are the lucky ones because they found somewhere to turn. I know that you hate the way things are for you now. You’re proud and it hurts, doesn’t it, when someone offers charity or talks about your family; sitting in a job centre and being judged must be a personal hell for you.”

“It’s no more than I deserve. Perhaps a good deal less – you’ll have to ask your friends that one.”

“Draco, you need to forgive yourself and your father before you can ask forgiveness from anyone else. And I think that you need to carry on with this to get everything out - this and the confessional will help you to let go of everything you’ve held inside you all this time.”

“You presume there is more.”

“Of course there is. You’ve not even touched on your wife and Scorpius.”

I flinch. I can’t help it. The unexpectedness of hearing my son’s name mentioned. I glare at him.

“He’s not up for discussion.”

“No,” Harry says. “I know you’re not ready yet.”

I don’t like the implication that he knows me better than I know myself, but I already know that I will tell him about Scorpius, though the thought bypasses rubbing the back of my neck to squeezing hard, trying to keep my breaths even.

He must see my distress. “I’m sorry, Draco,” he says in that soft voice he uses sometimes.

He doesn’t say anything else, but suddenly I feel his hand curled against my hair, stroking.

I am... I am going to cry if he doesn’t stop. I jerk away.

“I have to go,” I say.

He is sitting with his hand still hovering out in front of him, a startled expression on his face.

“Yes,” he says. “I’ll come and see you tomorrow, if that’s alright.”

I just want to get out of here, now. “That’s fine,” I say and bolt from the room.

~o~o~o~

Bishop Dumbledore is smiling reassuringly and patting my hand. “I have faith in you, Harry. From the sounds of it you are doing a marvellous job in getting Draco to open up. You are dealing with your attraction very well. It was always going to happen at some point. It’s something we all have to face and it is impossible to run away every time. You are answering God’s call, and that has to take precedence over all else.”

I am glad of the vote of confidence, even if I don’t feel worthy of it. I can’t say that anything I do where Draco is concerned is without the edge of desire. I wanted to soothe his pain the other day, but I wanted him to take it and look at me the way he did that morning.

I can’t believe the Bishop is so casual about my sharing a bed, no matter how innocently, with a man I am so pulled towards. And I didn’t hold back on describing how he makes me feel.

I can’t argue with his assertion that I am dealing with it: I may have had impure thoughts, but I have not acted on them.

I wish he would chastise me, though. I want him to remind me that there are consequences to thought and action that go beyond any moment of short lived joy on this mortal plain. 

“Listen, Harry, you know you can always call on God’s strength and his armour to protect you. You have the angels to call upon. You have all of this at your disposal _and_ you are a strong man. You have a determination that is rare.”

I slump down in my chair. I don’t feel very determined.

“What about Astoria and Scorpius? Is there someone trying to get his wife to reconcile with Draco? Or at least to allow him to see his son.”

“You leave that to me, Harry,” he says with a twinkly smile that leaves me to wonder just what is happening with Astoria and Scorpius.

After he’s gone, I walk to the church 

I gaze up at the crucifix with a flush of guilt. I think of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. I don’t know if I really want him to take this challenge from me, but how could I even ask when his son endured so much suffering in my name?

~o~

_Father Remus Lupin was the man I aspired to be. I had gone to him, terrified that I would be told my deviance would get me a place in Hell and, worse for me at that time, thrown out of the church. But he stroked my hair, as I knelt at his feet, and told me that it happened._

_“Do you have impure thoughts about Cedric?”_

_I blushed, glad of the privacy of the confessional. “No, Father, it feels like when I look at Jesus.”_

_“I see. Would you call it admiration?”_

_“Yes!” I clung to the idea. I don’t know if it was because it was the truth at the time or because I wanted to believe it was. “He is... amazing.”_

_Father Remus’ tone was warning. “You must control your thoughts of him. Don’t allow them to spiral out of control. Step back and look at what it is that you admire about this boy and whether it is something that would help you to serve God better.”_

_I took in his words, feeling the weight lift from me. I confessed to my other transgressions with a far lighter heart._

_I was absolved of my sins and sent off, happy._

_My naivety was staggering. I believed that he was going to be an inspiration to me, right up until the night I had a dream of tangled images – our Lord Jesus Christ on the cross and Cedric._

_I sought out Father Remus before next confession. He heard me out, as I knelt before him, and I remember the look of sadness in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Harry.” He put his hand on my head, stroking my hair gently._

_It was then I found out that Father Remus knew exactly how I felt. He told me about Sirius whom he’d loved with all his heart, as a boy my age. He didn’t tell me what happened to Sirius - that came much later - but it helped. I didn’t feel so lost, no matter how much I struggled with my feelings. And struggle I did. Frequently._

_The following spring, Cedric was leaving the church after choir practise, when a car went out of control and hit him. I saw it happen – I’d been sitting in the graveyard waiting to speak to him, only I had chickened out at the last moment. He was killed outright._

_I was torn between the thought that I could have saved him if I’d spoken to him that night, and the thought that God could see my black heart and was punishing me. Either way it was my fault._

_I ran to Father Remus and sobbed against his robes as he held me and told me that God did not work like that. But still I swore to God that I would never let my feelings get out of control again. ___

__

____

~o~

And here I am, sitting looking at Jesus, and I am terrified of what will happen if I let my black heart rule my head. A part of me knows that it is superstitious nonsense, which is ironically what a lot of people think of religion these days.

~o~o~o~

There is a man standing on my doorstep claiming to be a piano tuner. I wasn’t expecting him, if Harry has sent him, he hasn’t told me, and I remember a visit from an electrician who tried to kill my father, so...

So I am reluctant to let him in.

There’s only one way to sort this out.

“Father Harry Potter, please,” I say. I sound on edge. I can hear the panic threatening. Deep breaths.

It seems to take forever for him to come to the phone. I don’t give him the chance to get a word in edgeways. “You sent someone round to my house without telling me.”

“He’s there already? I was going to come along with him.” Now he sounds frantic. “Tell him I’ll be there in half an hour. It’s alright - he’s a friend of a friend.”

“You could have told me.”

“You would have made me cancel. I know you, Draco.”

That sends a shiver down my spine. Does he really think he knows me? He’s barely scratched the surface. Or did I tell him things when I was drunk? I wish I could remember more about that night, but every time I think about it, it’s the morning after that comes to mind.

“Fine, what’s his name?”

“Garrick Ollivander. Will you let him in and give him my apologies, please.”

I replace the receiver in a sort of a daze. Is this how it is now? Harry Potter says jump and I ask how high. I go and let Ollivander in. He seems unfazed at being left on the doorstep for so long.

“Where is it?” he asks, looking around the entrance hall as if I would keep my pride and joy here.

“I had to move it when the music room got a leak - through here.” He follows me through to the front parlour. I open the shutters and push up the windows. At least it’s warmer today.

“Oh, my; oh, this is beautiful. Harry didn’t tell me much about it.”

“Harry wouldn’t know his arse from his elbow when it comes to this. I think he’s more interested in church organs.”

Ollivander snorts. “I daresay you’re right. So, you have a beautiful Yamaha concert grand stuffed into a parlour. How did you move it?”

“I had help. Just tell me that it’s only out of tune and there’s nothing else I need to worry about.”

I feel slightly sick asking him, afraid of what the answer will be.

Ollivander gives me a knowing look. “Why don’t you go and put the kettle on and leave this to me?”

I am happy enough to do as he says. I look at the wine rack and think about opening a bottle. I have been lost enough without being able to play, but if I’ve caused any damage I won’t be able to live with myself. I had entertained a notion of being a famous concert pianist, as a child, but I was never good enough for that. Still, despite the disappointment of knowing that I would never reach the heady heights of my daydreams, I still adored playing, and it was the one thing, for a long time, that my father praised me for. Like Harry, he wouldn’t know his arse from his elbow when it came to playing.

It was my mother, actually, who taught me. She had been good enough to be a concert pianist but she had damaged her beautiful hands. I remember the intense feeling of frustration that came off her as she would sit on the stool and try to recreate the runs she had no difficulty with before. But always so contained – every emotion was channelled into her playing, even then.

Harry’s arrived and is standing in the entrance hall with Ollivander when I get back.

“I’m just in time,” Harry says. He puts a packet of hobnobs on the tea tray. I scowl at him, but go through to the parlour.

“The good news is she’s in good shape. I should be able to just tune her up in a couple of hours,” Ollivander says, following me through and taking his tea. “It would be better if it was quiet in here, so perhaps you’d like to go and catch up elsewhere.”

I am going to object, but Harry takes hold of my elbow and leads me out of the room, not even bothering with the pot of tea and biscuits.

We end up in the kitchen, of course.

“I knew you’d be a bit tense,” Harry says. He’s bustling around the kitchen like he owns it, putting the kettle on once more and he has another packet of biscuits. “Ollivander is one of the best, apparently, and it just so happens that my bishop knows him rather well.”

I put my head in my hands. “What do I have to do for this?”

“Stand in for our organist, remember?” Harry laughs and sits down, pushing a cup of tea towards me.

“I’m not sure about this, Harry. Just because they both have keyboards-”

“You can at least try, and if you’re really bad we’ll just think of something else you can do instead.”

I lean back and when I stretch my legs out under the table, my foot connects with Harry’s. We both jump and I pull back my foot.

“Are we going to talk about this?” I ask.

Harry shrugs. “About what?” He’s such a terrible liar.

“Oh come on, Harry, I know you must be having a whale of a time in the confessional. I’m not blind _or_ stupid.”

“I will not talk about this with you, Draco. Alright, I’ll admit I feel something beyond what I should, but I have taken vows and I take them seriously.”

I huff out an angry breath. I am absolutely furious with him now, for some reason. I have known all along that he’s a priest and this is impossible, but... I can’t believe he’d turn me down. I don’t understand how he can when it feels like this: like all of my nerve endings are raw and I just want to touch him. I want to curl my foot around his. I want his fingers stroking through my hair and I can _see_ that he wants it too. 

“So where does that leave me?”

“I’m sorry, but this has nothing to do with you. My struggles are my own. I have enough willpower to control myself-”

I can’t believe this. “You _idiot_ ; do you honestly think it’s just you who feels it? Who did you imagine I was thinking about that morning?”

Harry blushes a most unattractive shade of red. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, and he glares back at me. Stubborn bastard.

I’ve had it with this conversation. He’s not getting away with pretending that I am an emotionless wanker - hah! - just because it suits him.

“No?” I say in my coldest voice and I can’t help a savage grin at the way his mouth twitches. “Well, perhaps I should fill you in a bit more, then.”

Before I have fully formed the idea, I am leaning across the table, grabbing his cardigan – how do I even fancy a man who would wear a cardigan? It’s preposterous – and drag him up, kissing him hard. Our teeth clash, painfully, noses bump. I let go of his cardigan with one hand and shove his head to the side, tilting my own the opposite way and that’s much better.

My hand curls around the back of his head as I kiss him. His lips are a firm line, unresponsive. I let him go and drop back down onto the bench.

He is leaning back, away from me, a wary look on his face that makes my heart sink. I’d rather he slapped me, like Pansy would if I overstepped the line. But his hands are clasped together, as though he is getting ready to pray, and maybe he is.

“I am willing to forgive you for that. You’re under a lot of stress at the moment. But it can never happen again or I will pass your case on to one of the other priests,” he says.

My insides feel frozen. I don’t answer, but in that moment I am sure that I feel more than a passing attraction, even a strong one. I can’t comprehend not seeing him anymore. I can’t stand the thought of anyone else in his place.

“I’m sorry,” I say. I look down at my hands on the table, our cups of tea gone cold.

“It’s alright, Draco. It’s not unheard of, but we can’t act on all our impulses,” he says, sounding incredibly patronising.

God, the rage I feel is breathtaking. I want to destroy the whole kitchen. If Harry wasn’t sitting there I probably would. Well, I’d certainly slam a few doors.

It’s awkward after that. Harry tries to bring up various other subjects, but I stubbornly refuse to answer with anything other than a detached politeness that reminds me of my mother in social situations.

The time drags and I am thinking of going out for a cigarette when Harry suggests going to see if Ollivander has finished yet.

He is sitting, ear tilted to the piano, playing each note and nodding to himself and humming.

“Well, I think we’re just about there,” he says sitting up and caressing the case. “Would you mind giving me a demonstration?”

I am not used to playing for anyone. Despite my ambitions, the fact that I was never good enough to achieve them stopped me from showing off to anyone other than my mother and father.

Harry’s expression brooks no argument, though, and I owe the man something for tuning the piano.

“The sound in here isn’t the best,” I say, lowering myself onto the bench seat. I close my eyes and search for a piece. One of my mother’s favourite pieces - Orfeo’s melody - comes to mind.

~o~o~o~

Electrifying, there’s no other word for it.

Draco sits at the piano and _caresses_ the keys. He bows his head and for a moment I think he might kiss them, but delicately and without preamble he begins to pick out the notes.

He winces a few times at the beginning, but the longer he plays the calmer his expression becomes.

I assumed he would play something big and dramatic, but this is nothing of the sort. The longing in it is almost palpable.

It’s nothing short of magic, and I wonder how he managed to live without this for however long it’s been.

When he comes to the end there is complete silence and none of us seem inclined to break it. But then Draco looks up. It’s almost as if he’s forgotten we’re there.

“It was my mother’s favourite piece,” he says. “God knows why, dreadful maudlin thing.” But his eyes are shining a little too brightly for me to believe him.

“It was wonderful,” I say.

“Any time you need a tune up, young man, you give me a call,” Ollivander says. He presses his card into Draco’s hand, packs his toolbag and leaves.

Draco seems too stunned to say anything. Finally he looks at me. “Thank you for this,” he says. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed it. You’ll have to come back when I’ve had the chance to practice and hear something a little better than a half remembered melody.”

“Better than that.” I must sound as doubtful as I feel, Draco looks offended for a moment.

“Oh, you think that was perfect? How sweet. I haven’t played for over a year - that was full of mistakes.”

I can feel myself starting to blush. I feel like an idiot. “Well, I liked it.” That’s even worse. Draco raises an eyebrow at me.

“Well then, why don’t you call the Royal Albert Hall and arrange a concert for me. You seem to be able to do whatever you want.”

“I didn’t say you were that good.”

He laughs and the tension that has been with us since that attempted kiss is gone. No, I don’t want to think about it. 

“Are you coming to confession on Wednesday?” I ask eventually. 

He shrugs. “I suppose, if I must.”

“I’ll sort out a meeting with our resident organist, if it suits you.”

He inclines his head, which I take to be a positive.

“I’ll leave you to it then. See you on Wednesday... or hear you.” I’m an idiot and he raises a disparaging eyebrow at me. “Alright, I’m going!”

~o~o~o~

I can hear the soft murmur of Harry’s voice beyond the closed screen. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but the rhythm and inflection of his tone is so familiar to me now. I know it’s ridiculous to be jealous of whoever it is he’s talking to, but I am. I want him to send them away and turn his attention to me.

Finally it is my turn.

“Bless me father, for I have sinned. It’s been two weeks since my last confession.”

I don’t miss the way his breath stutters as I start speaking.

I can see the way he struggles to keep his eyes forward. I lean forward until my cheek is pressed against the latticework, my fingertips poking through.

“I want you,” I say. “I can’t stop thinking about you waking up in my bed.”

“Don’t,” he says. 

“Isn’t this what I am supposed to do in here? Confess my desires.”

“It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep, but nothing happened. It was entirely innocent.”

I laugh bitterly. “That’s not true and you know it. You want me, too. Do you think I’m blind?”

“No, Draco, but I am telling you to stop this, now.”

“You don’t own me. You can’t tell me what to do. If I want to tell you that I buried my face in the pillow you used, so I could smell you as I wanked myself into oblivion, you can’t stop me.”

“Please, Draco,” he says, but he sounds slightly breathless now, sending warmth flooding through me and hardening my cock. I can’t help but think that the necessity of keeping our voices low increases the feeling of intimacy. I wonder how many people fall in love with their priest’s voice.

“It’s safe here, Harry. No-one has to know about this.”

“That’s not how the confessional works.” His voice is barely more than a whisper, and he is still looking at me, his eyes dark. “You can’t... you can’t manipulate it – me - to your liking.”

His words sting, even if they are justified.

I press my fingertips through the holes in the latticework. “Harry,” I say. He ignores me, steadfastly staring at some fixed point ahead of him. I try again. “You fixed my piano.”

“I got someone to tune it. It was nothing.”

“No-one else knows what it means to me. Even Pansy thinks it’s just something I used to show off about. I’d be happy with any old upright, as long as it was in tune – as long as I could play. You knew I needed it, didn’t you?”

“It’s part of my job to be perceptive in the ways I can help anyone who needs it. I do it every day. Don’t read any more into it than that.”

“I don’t believe you, Harry. Maybe it’s just the job with some of them, but not you.”

“I can’t let it be more than that,” he says. He’s starting to sound anxious, but he’s moved closer to the screen; so close that I can whisper in his ear.

“You did it for me.”

“What do you want?” He sounds close to breaking. I don’t want him broken. I want the man who stubbornly refuses to let me sink into a pit of my own making, despite my attempts to send him away. The man who can talk me into doing things I would never have contemplated. I want his strength.

“Harry,” I say again, and now he looks at me. I wiggle my fingers and he glances at them. “I’m not playing with you. I...” I swallow the urge to blurt out the words on the tip of my tongue.

“No...” He touches his fingertips to mine and it’s as though a jolt of electricity passes through me.

I try and grasp his fingers, but it’s impossible through the screen.

I can feel the heat from him; hear the way his breath catches again; see the sudden dip of his head. I think he closes his eyes for a moment, but I can’t tell for certain. I press the fingertips of my other hand through the screen and touch his cheek.

“Don’t deny the way you feel as though it’s nothing,” I say.

Harry turns his head slightly and his lips brush against my fingertips. It’s my turn to take in a shuddery breath.

“There’s nothing to be done,” Harry says, his voice choked with emotion. “This can’t happen.”

I don’t try and dissuade him of that. Not yet.

~o~o~o~

He is waiting for me, after confession - lounging against the wall, skulking in the shadows, all arrogance and vulnerability in equal measure, met by my anxiety after what just happened.

I plaster on a bright smile. “Come on, Colin’s waiting.” I show him up to the organ gallery.

I’m not sure how the meeting will go. Truth be told, Colin sometimes rubs people up the wrong way with his relentless enthusiasm. But Draco is quiet, almost subdued. He watches Colin’s demonstration in silence then asks all the right questions. It’s clear they are both true musicians and they seem to form a strange sort of bond. I ignore the bright flare of jealousy as Draco laughs at something – a musical in joke that I don’t understand.

“Shall I leave you to it, then?” I ask.

Colin looks at Draco to see what he wants, but Draco gives me a look that dares me to move even an inch.

“You won’t be put off by me?”

“Of course not,” Draco says, glaring at me as if I am a complete idiot. Colin just shrugs, happy to go with the general consensus. I go and sit off to one side. 

Draco’s quick to learn. He has a look of grim determination and Colin gives me a thumbs-up as Draco tries out a simple hymn. Piece by piece, all of my carefully assembled armour is being stripped away by Draco Malfoy’s words and his deft fingers.

“I’ll need to practice,” Draco says afterwards, scowling at me for only he and God know what reason. 

“No problem,” I say. “Colin can give you the times he’s available for lessons and you can come in any time to practise as long as the church isn’t already in use. It might be an idea just to give me a call before you make a trip.”

I don’t know how I manage to keep my voice even as Draco comes and stands so close his shoulder presses against mine and his fingers brush against my hand.

Colin writes down his phone number for Draco and hurries off to wherever he’s going next.

Draco rounds on me and for a moment I think he might be about to lay into me, but instead he crowds me against the wall, his hands on me, stroking down my chest and pressing me back. The stone wall is cold through my cassock. He looks as grimly determined as he did picking out the notes of an unfamiliar piece on our beast of an organ.

“Draco,” I say, taking his hands and holding them between mine.

“No, don’t.” He pulls his hands away and puts them either side of my face, gripping my ears hard enough to hurt.

The kiss, by contrast, is soft; far softer than the hard, desperate effort the other day. His lips seem to caress mine.

I mean to push him away. I think. Instead I find myself gripping his upper arms and trying not to moan as he presses his tongue in my mouth.

It’s like the floodgates have opened. I feel helpless under the onslaught, or maybe I just want to be. His hands gentle against the sides of my head, becoming a caress.

When he finally pulls away we are both breathless panting and dazed.

His lips are shiny with spit, pink and plump and tempting.

Draco moves forward and presses against me. He moves and a shaft of light catches his hair, making it glow. He’s one of the angels or a saint and this feeling is the divine love of God, piercing me. My whole body feels alive with it.

And then he moves again and then he is just Draco again. I make myself push him away.

Too hard.

He staggers back, tripping over the raised platform of the organ.

“I’m so sorry. I’m really, really... I didn’t mean to push you that hard.”

The open, vulnerable expression disappears behind a mask of cool disdain. Somehow I feel like I’m in the wrong, even if it was his unsolicited advances that got us here.

“Forget it,” he says. He runs his hands over his clothing, straightening and smoothing. “You’re a fool if you think we can continue the way we have been.”

I have to clench my fists to keep from touching him, like I want to. “I’m sorry, I-”

“Oh... fuck off!” He storms off, smacking his hip against the organ bench, making it scrape against the floor.

I hardly know what to do with myself. I disrobe in the vestry and stride out across the fields. But two hours later, with the rectory in sight, my mind is even more tangled than it was when I set out.

I brave Molly’s kitchen because I need to do something practical that lacks the need for deep thought, and besides I love prepping vegetables.

Ignoring Molly’s protestations, I start peeling and chopping the carrots for supper.

“Is there something wrong, Father?” she asks, as I start on the leeks.

“Nothing, Molly, thank you, and please call me Harry.”

“I know I’m just the housekeeper,” she says, pursing her mouth as she starts banging roasting tins and pots about.

I glance up from my chopping in surprise. I’m ashamed to realise how much I’ve taken her comforting motherly presence for granted. I can’t imagine this place without her.

“I don’t know what we’d do without you, Molly,” I say, pleased to see her embarrassed smile.

“Oh, give over. It’s no more than I’d do for my own.”

“Yes, but... well, it’s appreciated and maybe you can help me.” It’s worth a shot. “I need your advice about Draco Malfoy.”

Her lips form into a thin line. “I don’t like to speak ill of anyone, but he gave my Ron a very hard time in school.” She stops patting down a gammon joint

“I know – he spoke to me about it. I know the Malfoy name isn’t welcome in the village.”

“Not many other places, either, from what I hear. His dad’s where he belongs, if you ask me.” She carries on, brushing something dark and gloopy looking over the gammon, somehow managing to make the strokes aggressive.

“Yes, I know what he did. Draco told me some of it. He’s trying to change. Do you think there’s a chance that he could be reintegrated back into village life?”

“Harry, dear, that boy’s family was involved in all sorts of terrible things and my Fred paid the ultimate price, not that they ever found out just who did it, but he was gone, just like that. And for what? Some megalomaniac who thought he could rule the world. And _he_ got exactly what he deserved.” Molly, whose movements have been getting more vigorous as she speaks, stops suddenly and covers her face with her hands like a little girl. She is shaking with suppressed sobs.

“I’m so sorry, Molly.” I hate this – my inability to keep from putting my foot in it because I don’t know. I have no idea what this village and its inhabitants went through. At the time I was going through my priest’s training, shocked and horrified at what was going on, but removed from it.

I wipe my hands on a tea-towel and take hers, and then she is sobbing against my shoulder and I wrap my arms around her.

It doesn’t take long for her to wipe her face on her pinny, straighten up and, as I’m sure she thinks of it, pull herself together.

“Dear me, what must you think of me?”

I take her hands again. “I think you’re a woman who’s lost a child and I can’t imagine anything worse than the pain you must feel.”

She gives me a wobbly smile. “You’re a very good priest. Unlike my Ron.” I open my mouth to deny that, but she gives me a look that shuts me up. “His heart’s in the right place, but... well, the bishop seems to think he will grow into it.

“Maybe he will. He does want to be here, doesn’t he?”

Molly nods and sniffs and goes back to preparing supper. “Oh yes, he’s convinced that it’s his life’s calling, and who am I to tell him otherwise?” She puts the gammon in the oven. “Of course, there are other ways to serve God. Ways that don’t prevent him from having a family.”

Ahhh.

“Yes, of course. Have you spoken to him about them?”

“As if he’d listen to his mother, but maybe if you were to talk to him.”

I look down at my pile of chopped vegetables. “I can speak to him and see how he feels. I won’t attempt to change his mind, though. I can’t.”

Molly comes over with a massive pan and sweeps all the veg into it. “And maybe I’ll put in a good word for Draco Malfoy at the WI meeting tomorrow night,” she says.

I bite my lip to keep from saying something stupid. Molly has turned her back on me, but she has started humming, which I think is a good sign.

I’ve never really been around women that much, except Aunt Petunia and I don’t think she’s a good representation of women in general. I wonder about my mum and whether she was anything like her sister, but I don’t think so. I have one small, faded picture of her and my dad together. They look so young and in love, with their arms around one another. I wonder who took the picture, sometimes. But that just makes me realise how little I know. I don’t like the anger it brings out in me.

~o~o~o~

“So what am I here for this time?” Pansy, love her, has brought gin and tonic, fresh lemon, lime and even a bag of ice. We’re on the floor in the sitting room, on the rug. I moved the little heater in here because she refuses to sit in the kitchen. Apparently it’s common.

“Do I need a reason to get drunk off my face with you?” I ask.

“Usually, yes, so what’s up?” She wriggles about getting comfortable, leaning against me, with her head on my shoulder. Comfortable for her, not so much for me, but I know better than to suggest she is anything but sylphlike.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Ohhh,” she twists to look at me. “Oh, now that sounds exactly like I _do_ want to know.”

“You remember I told you about the priest who keeps harassing me?”

She pulls a face. “Do not tell me we’re drinking the good stuff over an annoying priest. I was at least expecting-”

“For fuck’s sake, Pansy, let me finish,” I say, my nerves are on edge enough to make me snap and she sticks her tongue out. “He’s got me going to church. I’ve been to confession twice and-”

“ _What_?” she shrieks.

“Oh fuck off, you know my family was heavily into the religion thing before, it’s not like it’s completely out of character.” I squeeze her wrist to stop her interrupting again. “Anyway, it probably has more to do with the fact that I’m attracted to the prat.”

“No!” Pansy’s eyes widen. She shakes herself free from my grasp. “You’re kidding.”

I shake my head, feeling like the biggest idiot in the world.

“Fuck. Does he know? Have you fucked him? Jesus.”

I can’t help but laugh. Of course she wants to know all the prurient details. “I haven’t fucked Jesus. I’ve kissed Harry. Well, I tried once, the second time he actually kissed back, for a moment.”

“Wait. Hang on. We’re drowning your sorrows over a kiss. There’s something you’re not telling me, Draco fucking Malfoy. Are you... are you fucking in love with him?” She twists right round to look at me.

I am blushing.

“You are. You’re fucking in love with him. Fuck. _Fuck_.”

“Shut up! Jesus, Pansy, if I’d known you were going to make this much fuss about it I wouldn’t have asked you over. I’m not in love with him. I’ve known him all of five minutes. How could I be? Anyway, it’s impossible. He keeps telling me that he won’t break his vows for me.”

“He kissed you back!” Her voice has gone high pitched, incredulous and she slaps me on the chest for good measure. “You either want me to help you hook him or you were expecting an angry shag to get him out of your system. Or both.”

“Both?” I say.

Pansy runs her hand up the inside of my thigh and squeezes my flaccid cock. “I don’t think so,” she says, and I’m stupidly grateful to her. She pours us both some more gin and settles back against me with a sigh. “So, you want to know how to hook a difficult bastard of a man? Work out what it is he needs.”

~o~o~o~

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know that Draco had company. I’ll come back later… tomorrow… um, whenever he’s free. Ask him to give me a call. Father Harry Potter. He has the number.”

The woman who opened the door is regarding me with open amusement. She actually laughs when I finish stumbling all over my words. I know who she must be, but I don’t really want to think about that or the fact that she’s wearing a very masculine looking silk dressing gown and nothing else, it seems. She has two cups of tea in one hand and a cigarette dangling from her lips.

“Yes, I’ve heard all about you. Pansy Parkinson.” She gives me a once over, making me squirm. “Good God, you’re a fucking disaster. Come in, then. I’ll go and drag him out of bed.”

She gives me one more amused look and sashays off to get Draco, leaving me standing just inside the open front door. I close it and look over to the closed door of the parlour with the piano.

I don’t know why I decided to come here again this morning - I just wanted to make sure that Draco was alright after what happened the other day. Alright, if I’m honest I woke in a panic imagining him collapsed in a pool of his own vomit. It was easy enough to convince myself last night that it was ludicrous to think that he might be affected by my rejection - as if the world revolved around me. In the cold morning light it seemed far more likely. But clearly he has other ways to deal with rejection.

I feel so stupid.

Then he’s there, at the top of the staircase, his expression imperious. He’s immaculately turned out in a neatly pressed pair of trousers and a dark blue v-neck jumper - there’s something about that unexpected glimpse of pale skin and protruding collarbones that makes me feel slightly giddy. Nothing about him speaks of the morning after the night before. 

“Harry,” he says, seeming to glide down the stairs, his hand hovering over the banister. “To what do I owe this honour?”

He hasn’t taken his eyes from mine and he looks faintly amused at the way I am staring.

“You look well,” I say. “I just wanted to make sure everything was alright. I was walking… I needed a walk.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. He’s at the bottom of the stairs now, but he stops there, not coming the rest of the way to meet me. I shove my hands in my pockets. I feel like an idiot. Of course he’s not in love with me, no matter what he said in the confessional. That thought makes me feel hollowed out.

He gives me a false smile. “I’m fine, as you can see.”

“Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to interrupt anything. I… would you like to join me? No, no of course you wouldn’t.”

“Yes, he bloody would.” Pansy has appeared at the top of the stairs again. I wonder how long she has been standing there without me even noticing. She skips down and joins Draco, slipping her arm around him and running her hand up and down his hip. She leans over and nuzzles him, kissing his neck down to his collarbone.

I know I’m being toyed with, but it doesn’t help. My jaw is clenched. I have to make an effort to relax and unclench my fists. “I’ll just let myself out,” I say, backing away.

I crash into the door frame and it helps to focus me enough to turn and walk away as quickly as I can.

~o~o~o~

“Pansy, stop.” I push her away from me. She licks her lips and cocks an eyebrow at me.

“I think we’ve established that he wants you enough to be jealous and irrational in the face of provocation.” She grins and then huffs and rolls her eyes when I give her a blank look. “He practically ran away.”

“And how is that a good thing?” I look at the door as if I could see him still on the other side.

“Because he’s thinking about it - what it would feel like to run his hand up and down your hip and kiss your pretty neck.”

“Fuck off, Pansy.”

I need toast. Pansy follows me into the kitchen. It’s bloody freezing without the heater in here.

“I don’t think I like him imagining _us_ doing things.” I am thinking out loud, putting bread in the toaster and getting out the jam, in need of something sweet.

“Of course you don’t,” Pansy says. She sits on the table, crossing her legs - she has really amazing legs, particularly appealing with the folds of my dressing gown sliding back to reveal her thighs. She catches me looking and laughs. “Nice to know I still have some appeal to you, Draco darling.”

I smirk at her. “Always.” I walk over and give her a kiss, running my hand up the outside of her thigh. She slaps it away.

“I didn’t say you could touch the goods. Not if you’re not going to purchase them. Not anymore, Draco.”

I pull my hand away, frowning at her. I don’t know what the fuck she means. Fortunately the toast pops up and I can stop thinking about it.

~o~

I’m unsure what will happen when I arrive at the rectory later. I’m half expecting to be met by one of the other priests and turned away. But Harry is there, dressed in his cassock - I haven’t seen him in it outside of the church. He is stiff and formal, shaking my hand before taking me to the room with the desk again and sitting behind it. So, that’s how it is.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” he says. “I really just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“Funny, you didn’t mention that as you were running away.”

I can see him struggling to maintain his composure, unable to look at me directly but longing to give me daggers. “I wasn’t running away,” he says through gritted teeth. “You were busy. Very busy. I didn’t think I would be welcome.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

He sighs and lays his hands flat on the desk. “Can we just forget what happened this morning, please? I’ve been thinking about your… about Astoria and Scorpius.” He holds up a hand to stop my angry tirade before I can make it. “I know you don’t want to tell me, but I want to know how much of this,” he gestures to me, “is because of what’s happened there.”

My finger nails are digging into my palms. “It has nothing to do with anything. I want my son back.” My voice cracks, but I force myself to carry on. “I want Scorpius to come and visit me. How long does it take for a child to detach from a parent, to forget they ever existed?”

“It never happens, Draco,” Harry says, his voice softer now. “I never ever stopped wanting to be with my parents and I don’t even remember them.” He touches the scar on his forehead, perhaps subconsciously.

“And so I am just supposed to wait until he’s old enough to make up his own mind. What do I do in the intervening years?”

“Keep trying to get through to Astoria, try to prove that you’re worthy of your son, even if she doesn’t believe it yet. I believe that you are.”

My chest is burning, my heart feeling squeezed hard. “Why?”

Harry takes a breath and comes out from behind his desk barrier. He doesn’t sit on the chair but kneels beside me, placing his hand on my chest over my heart. “You have a good heart. You love him. You’re not looking for revenge on Astoria for taking him away. You haven’t done anything but try to reconnect somehow. Tell me what happened - why she left?”

He looks at me, studying my face. I wonder what he sees there.

“We were only married because her family and mine decided it would be a good match. We had no say in it. I think my father knew my preferences.” Harry’s face scrunches up in confusion. “I _love_ sex. I _like_ women, but I’ve never fallen in love with a woman in my life.”

“A man?”

“I’m not sure,” I say. “Love isn’t a simple thing with an on/off switch that illuminates it in one’s mind. Perhaps.”

Harry’s face shows a range of different emotions warring with each other. “It’s not important,” he says, removing his hand from my chest, slowly as if that will prevent me from noticing. “I’m sorry that I interrupted, please carry on.”

I smirk at him. He’s still kneeling, I wonder, idly, whether his knees hurt yet, but he must have plenty of practice kneeling for God. The thought sends a spark of warmth through my abdomen. Really, it’s not an ideal time to have an erection. Thoughts of my ex-wife are enough to quell that.

“Astoria and I got on well enough to begin with. She was a little dull for my tastes. In bed, I mean.” Harry bows his head, but I can see that he is blushing to the tips of his ears. “She conceived quickly and Scorpius was born.” The breath catches in my throat. “That was love at first sight. Have you seen him?”

Harry shakes his head. “No, there are no photos of him, I noticed.”

I take my wallet out and slide out the rumpled picture, taken just hours after he was born. I try and control the way my breath is shuddering, blowing out a slow stream of it. But I can’t. Talking like this has loosened something that I’ve kept tightly balled up inside me.

Harry grasps my shaking hands between his as he looks at the photo. The tenderness on his face when he looks back up at me is enough to break me.

I snatch my hand back, putting the photo away again, but unable to control the tears that won’t stop.

~o~o~o~

Draco tenses. The tears keep pouring down his face and he’s trying, almost succeeding, in keeping silent throughout. It’s just the way his breath hitches every now and again, like a quiet hiccup.

He pulls a hand away and throws his arm across his face and I kneel up, hugging him around the waist. His grief is overwhelming, engulfing him like a huge wave taking him far away from this room and from me.

I don’t know how long it is we stay like that. A long time. My knees hurt, my back and shoulders ache and I have a lump lodged in my throat. I let go of him, wincing as I ease back.

I have to get up, lurching to my feet. When I look at him again I can see the shutters going down, closing him off from me. I sink down into the chair next to him.

He opens his eyes and gives me a tired looking smile. “It’s alright, I know that I am no more fit than my own father was to raise a child. Scorpius was being bullied, you know.” It’s not a question. “When I went to the school to try and sort it out, it was clear they would do nothing because of my past. Not just my father, but my own time at the school. My father had seen to it that the rules were bent for me. I was never punished for what I did.” He bites his lip, his eyes are shining with more tears and he blinks them back. “Scorpius was paying for what _I_ did.”

“That’s not fair,” I say, suddenly angry. “Scorpius doesn’t deserve that. It wasn’t your fault that no-one could stand up to your father and discipline you the way you should have been back then. Do your friends’ children suffer the same treatment?”

Draco laughs, but it sounds desperately close to a sob. “Hardly. None of them are this pathetic.”

“You’re not pathetic.” I punctuate the strenuous denial by taking his hand and shaking it. “Draco, anyone brought up the way you were would struggle.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Listen, do you… I was wondering if it might help to, well, to apologise to the people you bullied. Not all of them that would probably be impossible, though you can ask forgiveness for them in the confessional. But shutting yourself away means that nobody knows how-”

“No.”

His quiet vehemence gives me pause for a moment. I try again, cautiously. “I think it would be a good idea. Molly, the housekeeper, she is going to try and put in a good word for you at one of her meetings.”

Draco gives me a horrified look. “What for?”

“Because you need to be able to get out of that manor of yours. It doesn’t matter what we talk of in here, in the confessional, or whatever else happens - unless you have friends and a place in the community, it would be too easy to sink again.”

He studies me. “You’re that desperate to have me off your hands.”

“Of course not. I’ll be here, but you need more than I can give you. You need more than me. You can’t put all of your faith in one person.”

“Oh that’s rich coming from someone who puts all their faith in an imaginary friend.”

I force myself to smile at him. “I know you do that when you are scared or upset, you lash out, verbally.”

All the colour seems to drain from his face. He looks as though he is about to make another angry outburst, but his lips compress into a thin line, holding it back.

“It’s alright. It’s safe here. You can shout at me as much as you like. I shout at God, often.” He gives me a startled look. “I blame him for everything, sometimes. Whenever I feel like I’ve been given too much of a challenge I question him and his motives. I threaten to leave him, but I never do. In the end I know that would be to cut out my own heart. I would be cast adrift in the world with no anchor.”

Draco is staring at me wordlessly. I suppose I haven’t really told him how it feels, before. He rubs his fingertips of the arms of the chair. “Why did you become a priest?” he asks.

After the emotion I felt speaking of my Lord, I find it difficult to school my features. I can feel the dismay written all over my face for a moment and he is sitting there reading me like a book.

“It’s personal. Every priest hears receives their calling in a different way.”

“Really,” he says in a flat voice, unimpressed.

I cast about for something I can say without having to go into too much detail of my upbringing. “I’ve already told you that my Aunt and Uncle were not pleasant people. That was somewhat of an understatement. The church became a haven for me when I was growing up and I got my calling very early on. I’ve told you of Father Remus - he was a guiding light for me.”

“I see.” Draco is looking down, his hair falling across his eyes. For some reason I feel it quite natural to reach out and push the hair back. He looks up at me, wide eyed, and I drop my hand away, but he catches it and holds it.

“This is ridiculous,” he says. He doesn’t sound angry, just sad and it makes my heart ache. “I have to go.”

He lets go of my hand and stands up. I feel the urge to stand and hold on to him, but it’s not my place to do so. He stops with his hand on the door handle.

“Pansy and I didn’t sleep together this time. Oh, I tried, but she told me she wouldn’t when I was obviously in love and not with her.”

~o~o~o~

I hadn’t meant to say that. I feel like a bloody idiot. My throat aches and my eyes feel raw. The last thing I want, right now, is the pity of Father Harry Potter. I didn’t want to see him or hear him conveying his sorrow at being unable to give me what I want. Not again.

Pansy’s gone out somewhere. The remainder of the bottle of gin is still on the floor in the sitting room. I pick it up and, unthinking, go through to the parlour.

By the time I sit down I have finished the bottle. I run my fingers lightly over the keys and start picking out a tune that I can hear but I don’t know where it is from. It is fragmented. Broken.

I give up on it when I start to feel as though I want to smash the keyboard to smithereens with each stumbling pass.

“Fuck!” I lower the keyboard cover and go through to the kitchen to get a bottle of wine. My stomach is empty. The cupboards are empty. No wonder Pansy has gone out. She’s probably gone to a restaurant.

I feel so fucking sorry for myself. Everyone either abandons me or betrays me... or just doesn’t want me.

I rarely visit the gallery – my father could be such a pretentious twat – but that is where my feet take me next.

On the wall facing the entrance, there is an enormous oil painting of my father seated on what looks like a throne, which just about sums him up. Sometimes I wish I could forgive him. The feelings he inspires in me are so black and twisted, like a cancerous growth destroying everything.

There are many paintings of our family group from my birth until my seventeenth year, others of mother and father before I was born, the one of my mother that makes my heart ache because she looks so sad – and I see her in my Scorpius. 

Tacked to the wall, in between the portraits are all the photographs of Scorpius. I can’t remember the night I did that. I was so drunk I passed out.

Scorpius stares at me with sadness in his solemn face and his big blue eyes. He looks almost exactly like me, except for his eyes, just like his mother’s. He’s never been quick to smile. He was a shy baby, curling up and hiding his face against my chest when a stranger would try to talk to him. Father would have been horrified, I suspect, but I adore him. I promised him the first time I held him that I would always love and protect him.

I have failed him. I should have run far away from this place and never looked back, long before Astoria decided it was necessary to leave without me. I can’t stand that I understand her reasons and it makes it so much harder to hate her.

My father gives me a disapproving look from yet another frame. He’s never met his grandson. Azkaban welcomed him before Scorpius was born and Astoria wouldn’t countenance taking Scorpius to such a place. Again I understand why.

I think of every way I failed my boy, I see a future in which Astoria steadfastly refuses to let me even talk to Scorpius until he no longer remembers me. But perhaps he really is happier now and I should be content to let him be.

My bottle of wine is empty.

I take a picture of Scorpius and I, the last of us together, from the wall and go back to the kitchen for more wine.

It’s been seven months, two weeks and three days. Children change so very quickly. It hurts to think of what I have missed. My fucking father, if it hadn’t been for him I _would_ have left this mausoleum long ago - before Scorpius was born. Astoria always hated it, but I think my mother persuaded her to give me time. It certainly didn’t take long after my mother died for Astoria to decide that she had given me enough time to ponder the decision to stay.

I don’t even like the fucking place. I hate it. I hate every fucking room. Even if it was the place I remember from my youth, I would still hate every last inch of it. Why my father’s spectre can hold me here I don’t know. I don’t understand.

I’m vaguely aware of my own ugly, snotty sobbing. Scorpius’ picture is getting crumpled. I try and smooth it out, but it’s beyond that. Everything lurches and sways around me, sending my stomach into freefall. I want to die. There’s nothing for me here. Nothing.

I have the knife. The Stanley knife. Good and sharp. Clean. Cuts like a knife through butter, as they say.

~o~o~o~

I don’t like hospitals. Of course they are a major part of my job, but it doesn’t ever get easier to walk through the doors. There’s a hushed uneasiness about them. It’s too hot. Stifling and there is, of course, the smell that all hospitals have – disinfectant and death.

The ward that Draco is on is secure, and I have to press a button on the intercom to be allowed through.

The hiss and crackle of static and a disembodied voice. “Yes?”

“I’m here to see Draco Malfoy. It’s, er, it’s Father Harry Potter.”

There’s a click and I quickly push the door open. The place seems deserted. Whoever let me in has disappeared.

There are a number of private rooms on the ward, and I understand that Draco is in one of them, but I don’t know which and all the doors are closed. There is a whiteboard behind the nurse’s station with all the patients written on in different colours, each colour relates to their doctor. Draco’s name is there, written in green ink, which means he is being seen by Doctor Snape. Fortunately it also gives room and ward details – Draco is in C1.

It takes a few minutes to find the room, down the end of a corridor. I pass no-one on the way.

I knock softly on the door. There’s no answer, of course, so I open the door a crack. I forget how to breathe. He seems to be asleep, propped up on several pillows, the sheets folded across his midriff. He’s dressed in one of those white hospital gowns - impossible to ignore the bandages around his left wrist, disappearing up into the sleeve. He looks grey and exhausted and childlike and vulnerable. 

My chest constricts painfully for a moment. I long to hold him in my arms and feel that he’s still alive – feel his heart beating against my chest and his breath on my cheek. Then my training kicks in and I move forward and touch his right hand. I pray for him. I thank God I can pray for him and absolve him of his sins – that he is still here and alive, no matter how weak he is. Still here. Mercifully free of machines and tubes. Just asleep, I think.

I touch his cheek, rough with stubble that seems out of place. He doesn’t stir. He’s probably sedated.

I stroke his cheek and sit down by his bedside, holding his hand between both of mine. He’s so cold, despite the stifling heat of the room. I try and rub some warmth into him. 

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t know whether any of this had anything to do with me or not. I feel like a fool even to wonder, but sometimes it’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Your friend, Pansy, told me that she found you in the portrait gallery. I didn’t even know you had a portrait gallery. She didn’t seem too impressed with it and I tried not to be, but it’s all a bit overwhelming. It’s like walking into a church for the first time and finding yourself confronted with so much of the Lord all at once. The portrait of your father is destroyed beyond repair. I saw the pictures of Scorpius all over the walls and your mother and you as a boy. I can’t begin to imagine how much you must have been hurting... I’ve let you down.”

When I stop talking, the silence seems to swallow us both. It feels like we’re the only people left in the world. I kiss the knuckles of his hand, barely any warmer for all that I’ve tried to infuse him with my own warmth. The urge to hold him returns stronger than ever. Fortunately I don’t act on it as the door flies open. A sour looking man, with greasy hair and eyes so dark they appear black, sweeps in.

“Who allowed you in here?” he asks.

My hackles rise. “I was buzzed in, but there was no-one at the nurses’ station. I saw what room Draco was in on the whiteboard and thought I’d show myself in rather than make a nuisance of myself, when everyone was clearly busy. You’re Doctor Snape?”

He doesn’t answer my question, his features twist into an ugly scowl. “I shall find out who let you in and they will be reprimanded.”

“Oh, no, please don’t. I phoned to say I was coming. They must have let me in on that basis. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.” I try to smile, but it feels strained.

His runs his gaze over me, lingering on Draco’s hand in between mine, and, if possible, his expression gets even sourer. “And I suppose it didn’t occur to you that you should have waited there. Of course not, you’re above the law, I suppose.”

“No, not at all – I’m sorry that I did the wrong thing, showing myself into Draco’s room, but I was worried about him. I’ve been trying to help him.”

His glittering eyes burn into mine and I feel as though he can see inside my mind. “I don’t think this can be regarded as a success, do you?” He sounds like he’s being ironic, but my heart plummets.

“You think this is my fault.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That reaction is more indicative of your own feelings on the matter than anything I may or may not think.”

I can’t work out whether he means he blames me or not.

“How long is he likely to be kept here?”

“That depends upon his assessment. He will remain under my care whatever happens.”

“Thank you.” I don’t know what else to say.

He sneers at me. “I wasn’t aware that you had anything to thank me for.”

I hold my tongue for fear I’ll babble on inanely or say something I’ll regret.

“Perhaps it would be best for you to leave. Now,” he says, leaving no doubt in my mind that it’s an order and not a request.

I’m sure he can see the guilt in my face, but I cling tighter to Draco’s hand. “I am sure my mere presence won’t upset him,” I try to sound sure of myself, but he doesn’t look convinced.

“For Mr Malfoy’s sake, I’m going to ask you to leave.” 

I look at Draco. He hasn’t moved an inch, except for the slight rise and fall of his chest and the faint pulse in his neck to show he’s still alive.

Doctor Snape has gone over to the door and is holding it open, giving me an expectant look.

My mouth is dry, heart beating so hard and fast I feel jittery with it. “Can I phone to find out how he is?”

“You may call, whether you are told anything will depend.” He doesn’t say on what.

I look at Draco again. I can hardly stand to let go of him, but I have to. I let go and straighten up. If it was a fairy tale perhaps he would open his eyes now and smile and everything would be alright. But it isn’t a fairytale. I try to comfort myself that this is a healing sleep, but my heart still feels as though it is about to shatter.

~o~o~o~

My fucking godfather is my doctor. I’m sure there are rules about that, but of course no-one knows about it as long as neither of us says anything.

I woke from a wonderful dream to find Severus leaning over me. It’s a wonder the sight of him didn’t kill me - he’s not the most attractive man in the world. He’s my father’s best friend, but he’s helped me at my mother’s request often enough to balance that out. He is a strange, secretive man. Being around him makes me feel uncomfortable. He seems disappointed in the world and everyone in it, but I have a theory that his heart was broken a long time ago and he’s never quite recovered.

Pansy has been in a couple of times to see me and shout at me and cry on me. Last time it was on the tip of my tongue to ask whether Harry had been to see me or asked about me. But I don’t know if I can stand to know the answer. Either way. What does it matter, after all?

It’s so fucking boring in here. I tried watching what passes for television, but it curdled my guts and made me sick. I tried to read – there’s a small dayroom with a bookcase full of novels, self-help books, spiritual books and about a million old Country Life magazines. Nothing held my attention for more than a few moments.

I just want to be out of here, the biggest barrier to that will be Severus, of course. I wouldn’t put it past him to knock me out and have me sectioned indefinitely, so I have to be on my best behaviour. I make sure to give the nurses the shy, slightly guilty, smile that makes them all blush and flutter about me – men and women alike.

Severus, or Doctor Snape as I have to call him while we’re in here, comes into my room and closes the door behind him.

“I have to let you go,” he says without any preamble. “But I am not happy, Draco. You are supposed to come to me when you are in trouble, now that your parents cannot protect you.”

I fold my arms across my chest and glare at the wall.

Severus sighs and comes to sit on the bed. “You don’t think I could possibly know what you are going through, is that it?”

He always did have a way of seeing my thoughts, as though he could read my mind. “How could you? You don’t have any family.”

“I had a mother, once, and a father who was not very nice. I know I was... am your father’s best friend, but that doesn’t mean I agree with everything he has ever done. I tried to help him when I knew he had got himself in too far and was losing himself, your mother and you. He was lucky with Narcissa. You have been very unlucky with Astoria. This won’t help your cause in the slightest.”

“I don’t want her.” What remains unspoken hangs heavy in the air. He nods.

“As I said I can’t keep you here any longer. You are being discharged this afternoon. Ms Parkinson is going to collect you. I believe she will be taking you back to stay with her and Mr Zabini.”

Oh great. “I don’t want to go and stay with them.”

“You’ll have to discuss that with Ms Parkinson, but I agree it would be a good idea to get you out of the Manor for a while.”

Fuck. I don’t think I can stand to listen to them shagging and/or shouting at one another all night and all day.

“Did anyone else come and visit me? When I was knocked out?” I ask, fiddling with my bandages.

Severus slaps my hand away. “Stop playing with that,” he says. “You are referring to Father Harry Potter, aren’t you? He did visit, once.”

My heart lurches and starts pounding. “Why didn’t he come back?”

“I told him not to.”

Fuck. I want to punch Severus in the face. I would but that would probably earn me a one way trip onto the Janus Thickey ward.

“Why?” I ask, keeping my voice as flat and devoid of emotion as I can.

Severus is looking at me with that intense gaze of his that makes me feel like I’m being dissected. “He seemed to believe that he had something to do with your decision to try and take your life. I very much doubt that he was the main reason, but I couldn’t risk him upsetting you, should you wake to find him here.”

I have to clench my teeth together. “I would have enjoyed seeing him.”

“Well, after three o’clock today, you can see him all you want.” Severus stands up and straightens his clothing. “I shall be back to discharge you.” He sweeps out of the room. Somehow he manages to make his white coat billow out like a cloak. He must practice that in his time off.

Three o’clock can’t come fast enough.

~o~

“Oh my fucking God, thank Christ you’re being kicked out today. You have to save me from your Father Harry - the man is driving me out of my fucking mind. He won’t stop calling. How do you stand it?”

I smirk at Pansy and she grabs hold of me and pulls me into a bone crushing hug. “I told you he was a pain in the arse,” I say, my insides doing things that make me feel horribly queasy.

“You weren’t joking. Come on, let’s go before they change their minds and drag us both in.”

Pansy links her arm through mine and half drags me to the car, she’s brought Blaise’s Merc.

“So, what did he say? How many times did he call?”

“Who?” Pansy puts her foot to the floor and screeches out of the car park nearly taking out the exit barrier, which doesn’t rise fast enough for her liking.

“Who do you think?”

“Oh, Harry! Well, he phoned after he visited to ask if I could keep him updated, I think good old uncle Sev chucked him out, not that he said as much.”

“Severus is not my uncle.”

“Fine, godfather, whatever, anyway, he was kicked out and no further information was forthcoming, so he came to yours truly.” She swerves to avoid a lorry reversing and again to avoid a pedestrian stepping out onto the road. “Jesus, fucking cunts.”

“Okay, but what did he say?”

“Nothing, he just asked me to keep him updated. He rang again the other day and I told him you were being discharged.” So he rang all of two times, I don’t know who to be more irritated with – Severus for scaring him off, Pansy for being a drama queen or Harry for only visiting once and ringing twice. Pansy, oblivious to my irritation, carries on. “He had this insane idea to put you up in a church owned cottage or something.” She shoots me a look.

“Why is that so insane?”

Pansy snorts. “Darling, you can’t be serious. You know that sort of thing always comes with strings attached.”

_Harry’s not like that_ I think, but I keep it to myself.

I don’t know what to say. My nose itches. My wrist hurts. I want to sleep and wake up in a different place.

“So he rang twice.” I’m not sure whether to be offended or pleased that he didn’t call enough to send Pansy into a homicidal rage. “Not that I don’t adore you,” I say, “and Blaise, obviously, but I’d like to at least see the cottage, before I decide not to go through with it.”

Pansy sets her mouth in a grim line. “Fine.” She swings right prompting the blare of a car horn, which she feels compelled to answer with a middle-finger-salute. “We’ll go and have a look, but you’re sleeping at mine tonight while you think on it.”

~o~o~o~

The Bishop is wandering around the cottage, picking things up and putting them back in slightly the wrong place. I’m just nervous, but I follow him around putting things back exactly.

“This was a very good idea of yours, Harry.” He fixes me with twinkling blue eyes that suddenly seem uncomfortably perceptive.

“Oh, well, it wasn’t really... I didn’t... Neville was the one who mentioned this place had been sitting empty for a while now, and obviously you gave the go ahead. I did very little, to be honest.”

“You are being modest, Harry, you’ve worked very hard on making this place welcoming and, if I may say so, perfect for Mr Malfoy’s needs.”

I shift uncomfortably, fiddling with the leaves of a potted plant on the kitchen counter. “But it wasn’t really me, it was really nothing.”

The Bishop tilts his head to the side and I remember some quote about protesting too much, but then he seems to accept it and just smiles beatifically and nods his head. “Well, it is a wonderful thing.”

“Can I ask how things are going with Astoria and Scorpius?”

“You may. I think that there is some headway being made.” He doesn’t seem like he’s going to give me any more than that and I don’t feel like I should push for more. “Well, then, I believe I shall leave you to it. I’m sure that my presence will not be required to welcome Mr Malfoy to his new home.”

He’s only been gone five minutes when a car screeches to a halt on the road outside. I go to the window and I can see Draco’s fair hair, bright as a beacon. He looks at the house and I wish I could see his expression from here. My nerves are buzzing.

I go and open the front door and an entire herd of elephants start flying around in my stomach. It’s just occurring to me how terribly presumptuous I am being. Why would Draco want to stay anywhere that I would suggest? I don’t know what I was thinking, except that I didn’t really want to think at all at the time. I might have gone mad if I had to sit and think. 

Draco is fiddling with his shirt sleeve and I realise that he is just as nervous.

“Would you like the tour first or a cup of tea?” I ask, from the door step. 

Draco looks at me as if I have temporarily lost my mind. “Tea,” he says.

I make my way through to the kitchen, resisting the urge to turn and look at him again. He still looks dreadful, his perfect posture is gone and he keeps his eyes on the ground. I put the kettle on and listen to them talking, mostly Pansy but occasionally there is a lull and I can just make out Draco’s voice.

I make proper tea with leaves. All the misgivings I should probably have had at some point before this start crowding my mind. I busy myself with the pot and the cups, saucers, milk and sugar.

Pansy is sitting on the sofa with Draco’s head in her lap, stroking his hair. I feel like I’m intruding on a private moment and hear my Aunt Petunia’s voice in my head _oh do stop dithering in the doorway, Harry_ , but I never felt like I belonged in any room in that house, and I don’t feel like I belong in this room either at the moment.

Pansy puts her free hand to her lips, gesturing for me to keep quiet. “I think he’s asleep.”

I tiptoe into the room and lower the tray of tea onto the coffee table.

“Would you like some tea?” I ask in a whisper.

She wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, what is this preoccupation with tea? Do you have any coffee?”

“Instant?”

“Ugh, don’t bother.”

I have to laugh at the look on her face. “Okay, well, what do you suggest we do?”

“I’m not asleep,” Draco says, opening his eyes, looking very much as though he’s just woken up. He sits up and I can tell it’s by sheer willpower that he manages not to rub his eyes and stretch. He looks rumpled.

“Tea?” Draco gives the teapot a longing look and I pour him a cup. “Milk and sugar?”

“A splash of milk.” He turns his nose up at the sugar bowl.

“Alright,” I hand him his tea and pour myself a cup.

Draco sips his tea and makes a blissful face. Pansy smirks and I look down at my tea, concentrating very hard on the tiny chip on the rim of the cup that I hadn’t noticed before. No-one would notice if they weren’t looking very closely.

“Well, this is awkward,” Draco says after a few moments.

“I’m sorry. I’m so glad you’re here,” I say.

Draco rolls his eyes and ignores me in favour of drinking his tea.

“Once you’ve finished I can give you a quick tour and you can decide if you’d like to stay.”

“We decided that it would be best for him to spend the night at mine, before he makes a decision,” Pansy says, interrupting Draco.

“Thank you, Pansy, but I didn’t cut out my tongue.” She looks mortified at Draco’s words, but he carries on regardless. “I’m feeling rather tired, so perhaps we can get this over with.”

“Of course, there’s no time like the present,” I say, offering him my arm.

Pansy follows behind us making comments about how quaint it all is that I’m pretty sure aren’t meant to be complimentary.

We reach the master bedroom on the right at the top of the stairs, looking out over the fields and Draco sits on the bed looking washed out.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I think I’ll stay here.”

“I’ll stay, if you want to get back,” I whisper to Pansy.

She ignores me, sitting on the bed and stroking Draco’s hand. “Would you like me to stay, darling?” she says in honeyed tones.

“Fuck off, Pansy,” Draco groans.

She huffs, dropping his hand back on the bed. “Fine.” I can tell she’s holding her tongue, whether it’s for Draco’s sake or because of me I can’t be sure. She stomps off and comes back with his clothes. She drags me out into the hallway, while Draco gets changed into his pyjamas. “You’d better take care of him. I don’t give a fuck if you’re a priest, the pope or fucking God - if you hurt him again, I will hurt you.”

I resist the impulse to point out that she has made mistakes with him too. I nod and take a step back, away from the anger that is pouring off her.

~o~o~o~

Time seems different. A week passes, most of it while I sleep. Every time I wake there is someone here. Sometimes Pansy, very occasionally Blaise telling me to pull myself together and stop upsetting Pansy. There are priests I don’t know: a Father Finnegan, who seems predisposed to dislike me though we’ve only met briefly a couple of times before, and Father Thomas. When they are together Finnegan’s personality drowns out Thomas. He’s boisterous and loud. I like it when Father Thomas comes by himself - his presence is quietly comforting. Severus visits a few times to discuss my meds and the way I am feeling. Surprisingly he doesn’t tell me off.

Mostly, though, it is Harry. He brings me trays of food and cups of tea, taking away the barely touched remains of previous meals. He’s the one who gets me up and changes my bedding and makes me bathe and change my pyjamas. All my clothes have been brought from the Manor and put away in the large oak wardrobe and chest of drawers.

I have a social worker called Hermione who seems to despair of Harry as much as she does of me.

I feel numb.

The thing is, I don’t think I want to get better. It would be easier for all concerned if I just drifted off. I barely talk, when I have to my voice sounds rougher. I ask about Scorpius and Astoria. I ask why anyone bothered to save me. I can’t be arsed to ask anything else.

Harry has managed to coax me down to the sitting room, for a bit of peace and quiet from his incessant encouragement to get up because it’s such a lovely day. I don’t know why he thinks it’s better enjoy the day from the sitting room rather than the bedroom, but I don’t have the energy to argue or to listen to him cajoling any longer.

He tucks me up on the sofa under a pile of blankets. The move has left me cold and I can see him questioning his judgement – he bites his lip and looks so anxious.

“I’ll go and get the space heater,” he says. It’s one of those noisy fan things, but it throws out a blessed amount of heat directly at me.

He lays his hand on my forehead and I flinch at the feel of ice against my skin.

“You’ve got a temperature.”

He disappears and comes back a few moments later with a single paracetamol and a glass of water.

It helps though, quarter of an hour later I have stopped shaking and can relax enough to curl up and listen to him reading to me, as that is what he has chosen to do. He reads from the bible and it doesn’t bother me. I like listening to his voice.

As the days pass, he keeps bringing me downstairs and reading to me. It takes me a while to notice how much more he touches me. It starts with just the hand against my forehead, testing to see if I’m feverish again, but then he starts sitting on the sofa with me and touching my arm to make a point, squeezing it when he asks how I am, holding my hand in between his as he tells me I have to get better, stroking my elbow when he gives me news of Astoria and Scorpius.

Harry brings a picture of me with Scorpius on my shoulders – his little body twisting, almost falling off, in his excitement to point out whatever it is he’s seen, his hair a mass of white blond ringlets, the pointed chin offset by the dimpled cheeks. I am gazing at him with nothing short of utter adoration. He puts it on the bedside table _to remind me of what I have to live for_.

Harry wraps his arms around me when I can’t cry. When I ask him why, he strokes my hair and tells me I’ve cried enough for a while.

I hold on to his ugly cardigan.

We sit there for a long time before he starts speaking again.

“The last time you came to see me, you asked me how I received my calling. I know you were angry that I wouldn’t share more of how I felt and why... I was thinking about it, and I think you were right to ask. You had the right to ask, I mean. I don’t mind telling you, if you still want to hear it, maybe it will help.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about – how it could possibly help – but I am willing to listen to him. I have no desire to talk.

“I trust you not to talk about this to anyone else,” he says and I just nod against his chest. “I spent the better part of my formative years shut in the cupboard under the stairs. My Aunt and Uncle had promised to care for me after my parents’ death – their version of care was to shut me away and force me to do anything they wanted. No-one ever came to check up on me, so I was completely at their mercy. When I was eleven I ran away. I didn’t have anywhere to go and no idea what to do. I couldn’t read or write. I remember standing outside the church, looking up at the stained glass windows. They were so magnificent. I felt, instantly, that it was a place where I would be safe.”

He pauses for a little while and I just listen to him breathe and feel the rise and fall of his chest against my cheek. He starts stroking my hair again and I wonder if it’s as much of a comfort for him as it is for me.

“Father Lupin found me sleeping in a pew and took me to the rectory. He gave me food and let me sleep in a spare room. He didn’t push me to talk to him that first night, and he didn’t call the police when I told him I’d been held prisoner and begged him not to send me back. The next day Bishop Dumbledore arrived. I was terrified at first, but he told me about the church as a sanctuary. The Bishop spoke with my Aunt and Uncle, made them promise to treat me better or have the full force of the law brought down upon them and I got to spend my days at the church with Father Lupin and the other priests, and sometimes the bishop.”

I let out an outraged noise. “How could they send you back?”

“They had to. If my aunt and uncle wouldn’t take me back then I would have been taken into care and the bishop wouldn’t have been able to keep an eye on me.”

“You had to live there until-”

“Until I was sixteen, and I left to follow my calling.”

“How did you know it was the right thing to do at sixteen?” I ask, thinking of my own sixteenth birthday, the black and bloody tattoo on my arm, now obscured by the mess that I’ve made of it, falling down drunk on ceremonial wine, terrified at being one of the grownups now.

“I knew it from the moment I felt that pull to the church at the age of eleven. I knew it and everything after that convinced me more. No matter how many times I stumbled, God was there to catch me and hold me safe.”

I curl up against him, a million questions hanging just out of reach. I have the horrible, sick feeling of falling, making me jerk and Harry’s arms tighten around me, catching me and holding me safe.

~o~o~o~

I am relieved when Draco falls asleep, yet again, and then I feel a stab of guilt that it’s his fragile state of health now that prompted me to tell him what he wanted to know. I wanted to protect myself from the challenge he would throw at my faith.

At this moment he looks almost childlike and I feel like the adult who has tried to pull the wool over his eyes.

I lie him down on the sofa and stroke his hair away from his eyes. He needs another shave. He’s complained about not being allowed a proper shave, but letting him anywhere near the straight razor he usually uses is out of the question, so he’s been using an electric one and moaning about it.

I go and get a start on the supper. It’s nice being able to cook for Draco, even if he doesn’t eat much, the act of chopping and whisking and stirring is soothing. It takes my mind away from questions like _who am I really doing all this for?_ And the thought that this would be a nice life.

Maybe this was what it was like for my parents when they first started living together. I like to think so. I might only have one picture of them, but I am sure that they are nothing like my Aunt and Uncle, just as I’m nothing like my cousin, Dudley. 

I wake Draco up and give him a bowl of vegetable chowder. He wrinkles his nose up, but his features smooth out at the first taste.

“Not too bad?” I ask, amused, and he makes a non-committal noise. 

He still doesn’t eat much, maybe half a bowl if I’m being generous. But there is the faintest hint of pink in his cheeks that makes me feel a glow of satisfaction.

“I want to get you outside for a bit. Do you think you’ll be up to it tomorrow?”

Draco looks at me as if I’ve gone mad. “Why? I’m fine here.”

“Because you haven’t been outside for over two weeks and you look like a ghost.”

He curls back up on the sofa. “I don’t know what’s wrong with looking like a ghost when I am one.”

I kneel to collect his tray from the floor by the sofa and I can’t resist stroking his brow. His skin is chilly to the touch. “You don’t feel like a ghost.”

He holds my gaze, then wriggles a hand out from under his blankets and strokes my forehead in much the same way. “How did you get this?” he asks, his fingertip tracing the scar on my forehead.

No-one’s asked me that in a long time. I catch people looking all the time, of course, but then they usually go red and look away, embarrassed. I’m used to that by now. I’m not used to this.

“I was in the car crash that killed my parents.”

He strokes my scar, the intimacy of it takes me by surprise and makes me shiver.

“It was a piece of metal... that left the scar.”

Draco’s hand moves down to stroke my cheek. I have no idea what to do. It feels too intimate. Dangerous. And yet I have been touching him in the same way, expecting him to accept it as a gesture of friendship and caring. Who am I trying to kid?

His hand is shaking slightly as we both allow him to continue and he strokes his fingertips down my neck. It feels as though every hair on my body is standing on end. His hand curls around the back of my neck and I think he is going to kiss me for the third time, but then he just lets his hand drop away. He closes his eyes and shuts himself away and I can’t deal with that, but then he gives the ghost of a smile and says “thank you.”

“What for?”

“Telling me all that. I can see why you didn’t want to, before.” He opens his eyes again. “And for all this – when Pansy told me, I wasn’t sure if I’d stay.”

I smile in return. “Neither was I, but I’m glad.”

“May I ask why you did it? I’m sure I’m not the most deserving person in your parish.”

I sit back on my heels making myself more comfortable. “That’s not how we measure things. Everyone agreed that it was something that could and should be done.” There’s no need to mention Ron’s arguments against. “Of course, you are lucky that it wasn’t the depths of winter, or you’d have had more competition.”

I reach out and squeeze Draco’s shoulder, then stand up awkwardly with the tray in my hands.

~o~o~o~

Harry drags me outside the next day. It’s late-afternoon. The noise of the children running about during playtime floats to us on the warm air, completely at odds with the way I am wrapped-up for Christmas.

Harry offers me his arm and we walk together down the back garden. It’s a long garden and I’m glad for the little wrought iron table and chair set, hidden by a walled off section. The sun shines on my face and I lift my face to the warmth of it. 

It’s strange that I’ve never thought about how good that feels. Or maybe I did once upon a time. But I’ve never dwelt on it. I do now.

I can feel Harry’s eyes on me.

“What?” I crack open one of my eyes to shoot him a disparaging glance, trying to ignore the way that looking at him makes my insides twist.

“Nothing, just that you look much more relaxed out here than you have in days. Perhaps you’re an outdoors-y sort of person, after all.”

I scoff at the notion and close my eyes again. There is blissful silence as he doesn’t see the need to fill every moment with mindless chatter, but I am very aware of his presence. The faint rustle of him shifting in his seat, reminds me of confession and the thought of it warms me even more than the sun. His lips.

I open my eyes just enough to see him through my lashes – a trick I haven’t used since I was a boy, pretending to be asleep. He seems lost in thought, his hands clasped together as though he is saying a prayer. Perhaps he is.

He frowns and glances up at me. I think the game is up but his eyes dart down to linger on my lips. I would give up the fortune I don’t have to know what he’s thinking in that instant - if it’s perfectly in sync with my own. I sigh and lick my lips and he blushes and looks away, quickly. I shrug out of the winter coat I had insisted on wearing, keeping my eyes mostly shut.

“Too hot?” he asks, his voice sounds lower than before. He clears his throat.

“Mmm, a little,” I say. I lift the thick winter jumper over my head, leaving me in a thin summer jumper. The sun is warm across my stomach for a moment. When I’ve straightened myself out again, Harry is facing away from me, his hands clasped together in his lap, even the tips of his ears are red now.

I feel suddenly cruel. He’s done nothing but try to help me even when I didn’t deserve it, and I have done nothing but throw it in his face or try to tempt him with the sins of the flesh. My father would be so proud of me.

I pull the coat around my shoulders again. “I’m going to go back inside. I’m feeling a little odd.”

“Oh, let me help you.”

I put a hand out. “No, I need to start learning to take care of myself. I do not need a nursemaid. If I run into difficulties I will call for you.”

He settles back onto the seat.

I make my way back up the garden. I still feel lightheaded, so it’s a relief to get inside the back door. I turn to look back down the garden and catch a movement beside the wall hiding the table and chairs. Of course he watched my progress.

I lean my forehead against the wall, feeling shaky and nauseated. Too much sun, as mother would no doubt have told me. A few minutes are enough, with my pale skin. I can only hope I haven’t burnt.

I feel like I’m on a drunken boat as I lurch through to the sitting room and throw myself down on the sofa.

I vow never to try to tempt Father Harry Potter again.

~o~o~o~

I’m too anxious to give Draco much time to himself. He seemed... out of sorts. I let myself in the back door and give myself a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the cottage. I can’t hear any noise, which makes me jumpy and nervous.

Fortunately he hasn’t gone far. He’s lying on the sofa, apparently asleep. The grey, double-breasted coat he had been wearing is pulled up over him like a blanket. His cheeks are rosy from the sun and the air. Too late it occurs to me that with such fair skin he’s likely to burn without much effort. I go to the bathroom to look through the cabinet for something to help. There’s a very expensive looking tube of aloe vera obviously intended for such a purpose.

I kneel down beside the sofa, click open the lid and squirt some of the lotion on my fingers. It’s cold, so I warm it up a bit, even so Draco flinches and grabs my wrist. His eyes fly open and he stares at me as if he doesn’t know who I am. I watch several emotions flit through his eyes, he stops on irritation.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up-”

“I wasn’t asleep.”

“Oh, right, sorry. It’s just that you caught the sun a bit and I was just going to put some of this on you.” I hold up the tube so that he can see.

“And you don’t think that that’s maybe a little too intimate for a priest and a parishioner?”

“I’ve washed parishioners’ feet. Er, I mean, that wasn’t intimate. This is just... part of my job.”

Draco frowns. “Not with me. I can do this myself. If you want something to do, go and make a pot of tea.”

I hand him the tube of lotion, feeling bereft and chiding myself for being ridiculous.

I use the last of the tea leaves and make a note to buy more – then wonder if that would be too much intimacy for Draco now. It’s a bitter little thought and I quickly banish it.

Draco is sitting up with his arms resting on his knees. The whole sitting room reeks of aloe vera and his face is glistening.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, taking the cup from me.

My stomach plummets, expecting him to tell me he doesn’t want my help any more.

“I need to do something to show Astoria that I deserve to see Scorpius again.”

I look at him, hopeful but unwilling to interject in case he rebuffs me again.

“I am going to get a job, I don’t care what it is – shelf-stacking if necessary - I don’t care anymore. I’ve had my head in the sand for far too long.”

I sip my tea to keep my mouth occupied.

“And then I will try to sell the Manor. It’s only being out of it that I can see how impossible the situation was before. Don’t worry, I will find myself a place so that you can give this to someone more deserving.”

“On the wages of a shelf-stacker?” I can’t help it. “You’re not even being remotely realistic, giving yourself so much to achieve, and presumably you expect it all to happen in the next couple of weeks, when you’re still weak enough that a trip to the bottom of the garden exhausts you.”

Draco gapes at me. “You don’t think I can do it.” He looks utterly crushed.

“That’s not what I meant.” I hastily put my cup and saucer down. “No-one could do all that.”

“You can,” he says, angrily. “You’re a bloody miracle worker. It never occurred to you to question whether or not you could do anything for me, you just go right ahead and do it. It never occurred to you whether you should, either. Well, you shouldn’t... you shouldn’t give someone false hope when you’re all they’ve got to go on.”

“I didn’t mean to – how am I giving you false hope? I don’t understand what I’ve done wrong. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, about you not being able to do whatever you want. I’m sure you can. I’ll help you with everything. I just don’t want you being hurt. There are mountains to climb every day it’s a challenge just to climb one.”

Draco hangs his head. “I want to stand on my own two feet, for the first time in my life. I need to.”

I want, desperately, to go over and hold him and let him know that he will if he gives himself time, but I’m afraid of pushing him further from me. I stretch out my mind to God and ask him to give all the strength he can to Draco. _He needs it, Father_.

“Would you like to help me make the supper tonight?” I ask.

“Aren’t you worried about me around the knives?” he asks in return.

“No.” I shake my head. “Come on, and then we can talk about shaving with straight-razors.”

We sit down at the kitchen table with a bowl between us.

“These are the first of Neville’s peas. He has an amazing garden at the rectory, you know. He grows all sorts.”

Draco nods. “He was always good at that sort of thing at school. I used to tease him for it. Bully him.”

“I should think Neville was an easy target.”

Draco pops one of the pods open and runs his thumb along, letting the peas drop into the bowl. “He was.”

We shell peas in silence for a little while. I steal one of the peas and pop it into my mouth rather than the bowl and laugh at Draco’s outraged expression.

“You will have to put that in your next confession: dear Father, I sinned, I wilfully stole and ate a pea. Forgive me.”

I laugh and steal another. “And what penance would you give me?”

Draco thinks for a moment, his head cocked on one side, studying me. “That depends if you’re truly sorry,” he says.

I can feel myself reacting his gaze. My mind keeps telling me that I am the Lord’s - body and soul - but my body is acting as though it doesn’t much care for my mind.

“I don’t think I am,” I say. “I would do it again, in an instant.” I take another pea and instead of eating it myself I press it against Draco’s lips. His eyes widen for an instant and then he parts his lips and lets me feed him the pea. “They’re too perfect to resist.” I say. I can feel the heat of his breath against my fingertip.

I run my finger across his bottom lip. “More?” I ask, well aware, as I think he is that I’m not talking about peas any more.

He nods and I lean forward to brush Draco’s lips with my own. His are dry and cool and he parts them enough for me to taste him. He floods my senses with his taste and his scent, and the way his fingers slide across my skin, along my jaw - he holds me there with barely a touch. He presses the tip of his tongue against mine, and now his fingers are moving, weaving through my hair, pulling me against him, deepening the kiss until we can’t breathe, and we have to break apart and take in sharp, jagged breaths. But all the while his fingers stay in my hair and guide me forward again and again, until I want to give myself up to him completely.

~o~o~o~

I don’t want to stop kissing him. I don’t even want to _pause_ long enough to see his blissful expression change to horror, regret and guilt. So I keep my hand cradled against the back of his head and keep pulling him in again and again. After all it’s not going to make it any worse, is it?

I don’t feel any guilt: I am damned anyway. I know that if I were to say so to Harry, he would shout me down, so I will keep my mouth shut. I could never regret this moment. I won’t talk about it in a confessional as if it’s something that I should be ashamed of, to be cast aside and forgotten, nothing more than a misstep.

Harry’s hands which had been clinging to my shoulders, digging in hard enough to bruise, have slipped down and he’s stroking them across my chest, his fingers run across a nipple and I feel like I’ve been electrocuted.

The sharp gasp I can’t suppress makes his eyes fly open. I’ve never seen them darkened with desire before. His pupils are dilated, rimmed with the brilliant green of his irises. I notice the faint smattering of pale freckles across the bridge of his nose and his cheeks for the first time. His lips are wet, each breath caresses me like the ghosts of kisses.

I _want_ so much, but no matter how much I can’t convince myself that it wouldn’t matter if this went further than kissing. I stroke his hair and run my hand down the nape of his neck, he shudders.

“I want to-”

I silence him with another press of the lips. I don’t think I could take him saying anything for a while - it can wait. I just want this perfect moment to last as long as it can.

And then he slides his hands up underneath my jumper. His hands are warm, that’s not what makes me jump and shiver all over. “I was going to say I want to touch you,” he says in a rush, before I can stop him again.

I can’t speak, just nod. His hands are gently stroking across my skin and then he wraps his arms around me underneath my jumper. We kiss and he strokes circles against my shoulder-blades. He runs his fingers down my spine, only stopping when he gets to the waistband of my trousers, but only for a moment as he dips his fingertips underneath.

“Harry,” I say, half trying to take him out of whatever reverie he’s in and desperately wanting him to keep going.

“I know what I’m doing,” he says, resting his chin on my shoulder.

It startles me into silence for a moment. I wonder who on earth he learnt what he’s doing from, because his warm hands are sliding down my back in a smooth glide.

“How?” is the only word I manage to get out.

The frame of his glasses digs into my cheek. “I mean I know this is a choice I’m making, here. But I have an imagination, too. Touch me, please.” He twists and his lips are on my neck and I lose the capability for rational thought.

I hardly know what to do. I slide my fingers in between the buttons of his shirt and touch his chest, like I did a million years ago. It’s enough to spur me on – to unfasten the buttons and remove the clerical collar (as if it’s nothing).

I spread his shirt wide. He’s not wearing anything underneath this time. I lean down and rub my cheek against the hair on his chest, just as I had longed to. I feel Harry’s breath hitch as well as hear it. I kiss him again and again until I reach the half-hidden nub of a nipple and take it between my teeth in a gentle bite. Harry feels tense as a bow string. I release the peaked flesh and run my tongue over it and he moans, pulling his hands away to clench in my jumper. I do it again to the other nipple and he moans again, louder, and tangles his hands in my hair, holding on far too tightly. I kiss down his belly, feeling it quiver with each press of my lips and his hips are moving.

I want him so much, I push my tongue into his belly button and he squirms away.

“Ugh, stop it,” he says.

I laugh and kiss the spot to the left and then directly below, I can feel his heat and the way he’s moving, frantically writhing in his seat. He lets out a small huff of breath.

I lift up and, oh God, his face - he looks as though he’s on the very edge and so beautiful in that moment. 

“Are you-”

“Yes, I’m sure,” he says, the words coming out in a panicked rush.

“I was going to ask if you’re going to come just from that.”

“Mn,” he bites his lip. He’s delightfully red faced and the flush of arousal carries down over his neck and across his chest.

“Yes? If I touched you now, would you...”

He shudders, his face pinched tight. I quickly press my hand between his legs, over his cock, rubbing. He moans and falls against me, clinging to my shoulders, and I feel it - feel _him_ \- releasing God only knows how much pent up need. It shouldn’t be this unbearably hot, feeling a man coming in his trousers, but it is.

His face is still scrunched up, but it’s different now. I can feel his come seeping through the fabric of his trousers. I wrap my arms around him and hold him for a moment or an eternity, I’m not sure. I don’t want to say the wrong thing, so I don’t say anything.

After a while he relaxes, resting his head on my shoulder and his glasses fly up on one side, hitting me in the face. We both huff out the same sort of dry laugh. I take his glasses and put them with his collar, on the table.

~o~o~o~

How can everything be so suddenly awkward when we have just shared such an intimate act?

I know I haven’t made Draco... I don’t know whether I should, now, or not. He’s holding me so tight. He knows how it will be the moment he lets me go and we start disentangling our limbs and disentangling our souls. My heart hurts.

I force myself to ask. “Do you want me to..?”

Draco shakes his head. “I don’t think I could handle the excitement without keeling over,” he says.

“I need to go and...”

He nods and we disentangle ourselves from each other. I have to put my glasses on, but I wish I didn’t, it draws my attention to the collar sitting on the table. I feel like I’ve discarded my God. I can’t look at Draco.

As soon as I lock the bathroom door every thought that I’ve been trying to hold back comes crowding in at once.

How can I get up in front of everyone and sermonise when I am more of a sinner than all of them put together? I knew what I was doing, but for one moment I couldn’t resist how much I wanted him - from the first moment I saw him standing there in the doorway with that imperious look of his that says _I’m far too good for you_. How can I ever speak to the other priests or Molly? The bishop’s twinkling eyes will turn sharp and cold as he tells me what a disgrace I am.

There is a cold feeling of dread that slithers icy fingers around my heart. I’ll be moved again. I don’t want to be moved. This place feels like home.

I run a basin of water to clean up with, removing my trousers and pants with a wince, putting them in the basin and scrubbing away the worst of the mess. I hang them over the bath to dry out as much as they can in the few hours I have left before I need to return.

The memory of his hands, his lips, the noises he made are all seared in my memory, but once I leave here tonight, all that will be behind me. I’ve failed. There will be no choice but for me to be removed from Draco’s path. I’ll be transferred. Oh, dear God, what have I done?

I take one of the towels and wrap it around myself. Draco is still sitting where I left him, at the table with the peas mostly unshelled, the collar, the potatoes and carrots, the vegetable peeler and the neatly folded copy of yesterdays Daily Prophet that I was going to wrap the peelings in.

He looks up when I enter the room and I can see the lines of tension around his eyes and his mouth. I know that he is waiting for me to reject him. His eyes drop to the towel around my waist and his lips quirk up in a tight little smile.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

The smile is gone from his face, he looks thoughtful. “You’re not even going to give me a chance, are you?”

I want to touch him, my fingers itch with it. “I can’t just-”

“Then what the hell is this?” he bursts out, angrily sweeping his arm out to indicate some connection between us, unseen but there, nevertheless. I can feel it too.

“There are many connections like this one, between us.”

“Stop! Just stop spouting _mumbo jumbo_ at me. This life is the only one that we can be sure of and I’m buggered if I’m going to let you throw this away without a fight. You’re always here, Harry, always fussing around me. Why is that?”

“Believe it or not, this is my job.” I know I’m not being completely honest, but it feels the lesser of two evils at the moment.

“Oh, bullshit.” Draco is glowering at me. He has two high spots of colour on his cheeks, but underneath that his face is completely drained of colour. “Get out.”

“I _can’t_.”

“You can. Just go. Please.” He turns away from me, his shoulders a tense ridge, his head down. I’ve hurt him, I know. The urge to touch him is overwhelming. I’ve made things infinitely worse.

“I’m scared,” I say. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“I won’t do myself in,” he says, his voice flat. “I need to be alone.”

“Please let me-”

“No.”

“Draco, I can’t leave you all alone. At least let me call Pansy or someone.”

“Fuck no,” Draco practically growls with irritation. Then finally realising I’m not going to leave him there on his own he says, “If you have to call someone, make it Thomas.”

I take the discarded collar, putting it back on, feeling like I’m donning a disguise. I go up to the bathroom and pull on still damp clothing before I go to the hallway to call Dean. I’m surprised and there’s a twist of something less than Christian at the thought he wants someone else here. I hate feeling like this.

I stop at the door to the kitchen, on my way out, and look in at him. He’s sitting exactly how I left him.

~o~o~o~

I just need some space. I wish that my piano was here. Everything seems grey, leached of colour. I think I may actually be falling in love with him. I allowed myself to believe I could have him in the way I want him. I can’t help but wonder at him letting me take his collar - that is a symbol of who he is, wherever he may be, whatever situation he finds himself in - impossible to overlook.

I love him and I loathe him. I try to excuse him as being stupidly naive because of his upbringing, and curse him as being too stubborn to address that now he is a man. I want him and I wish I’d never even heard his name.

I just know that living without him would be far worse than trying to reach some compromise. He is my friend. God knows I resent being denied in any way, but perhaps I am finally grown up enough to live with something rather than nothing when I can’t have everything.

But I can still taste him and feel the heat of him, the hardness of him against my hand. I’m sure I can still smell him. How fast he unravelled with just a few kisses and touches. The way he moaned and gasped.

I am hard again, my hand caressing the seat of the chair that he had sat in. I press my hand against myself, over my erection, trying to imagine him touching me this way.

I should have let him finish me and then at least I would have had one time to look back on. But it had felt wrong when he asked. The moment had passed. He seemed so unsure and while I had been holding him my lust had died down, replaced with something tender that I found I wanted even more.

I think of the way he felt in my arms and I’m dangerously close to falling apart again. Better not to think like that. 

It’s only now that it truly strikes me – I don’t think he’s been touched like that before. He was just a boy when he promised himself to God. Perhaps I have been gifted with his firsts and I’ve abused the privilege.

Thomas arrives and helps me with the peas. I feel no compulsion to kiss him and I can’t help wondering at the nature of desire.

~o~o~o~

There is news from Astoria. The bishop phones early on Tuesday morning to tell me that she has agreed to let Draco and Scorpius meet. Two hours for them to spend together.

I push aside my anxiety at seeing him again and rush to the cottage to tell him the news. His face is completely blank for a few moments.

“Are you alright? Do you want me to go?” I ask.

“No.” He leaves the room and I wonder whether to follow him for a moment, but he quickly returns with a lit cigarette.

“What did she say?” he asks his face blank though his hands are trembling a little.

“I didn’t speak to her. The bishop has been keeping me informed. I don’t know who is with her, but they seem to have had a bit of a breakthrough. She agreed to a supervised visit. I’d be quite willing to supervise, if you like, or I can ask Father Thomas.”

“Please,” he says. He rubs his hand across his eyes. “I couldn’t stop myself from thinking that she would never let me see him again. You know… you hear about people who never see their children again. She has more reason than most to keep my son away from me.”

I go over and sit beside him on the sofa, resting my hand on his arm. “Sometimes all that’s needed is time and a little space.”

“And some prodding from a priest or two,” he adds. I think he’s going to smile again, but his face crumples and the tears come thick and fast. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know why I’m crying, I’m happy.”

I squeeze his arm. “It’s alright. It’s natural. I know this is a huge moment.”

He nods and turns to me. I know he’s seeking comfort from me, and it should be natural to give it. But after what has happened between us, I hesitate. I can’t help it, even though this is as far from that as it’s possible to get. 

I run my hand up his arm and curl my palm around the back of his neck, pulling him close and stroking his hair. I can feel him shaking uncontrollably, choking on his tears and I hold him tighter.

“It’s alright,” I say, softly, close to his ear and he shivers violently. His hands cling and he tips his head so that his face is pressed against my neck. I feel his tears against my neck. It’s a strange sensation. I kiss his temple and hold him tighter.

~o~o~o~

Astoria is as beautiful as ever and twice as cold. She barely glances at me, passing Scorpius’ hand to me. Harry grins at her and I want to jerk him away and tell him not to waste his time.

“Would you like to go to the park?” I ask Scorpius.

Scorpius looks as though he is going to cry and I squeeze his hand, gently. “It’s alright I promise I won’t keep you for too long.”

He bites his lip. “Mummy said you’re not very well.”

My heart plummets. “I haven’t been too good, no. But I’m feeling much better now.”

“I want to stay with you,” he says, his voice wavering with emotion.

I don’t need to look to know that Astoria is fixing me with a death glare. It is difficult not to return the stare, but Scorpius is looking at me with such an anxious expression on his face. I kneel down and hold on to his hands.

“I promise I’ll do my best to work things out with Mummy, so that you can sometimes stay with me in the future.”

Scorpius looks at his mother and back at me. He nods and a small smile breaks through. “Alright.”

It’s only as I stand and brush off my knees that I realise I have stolen Harry’s signature move - he’s the one who is always kneeling before me and holding my hands. I hadn’t realised what an effect it had on me. I look over at him, but he is looking into the distance, with his hands clasped behind his back. 

“I’ll bring him back in a couple of hours,” I say to Astoria. She kisses Scorpius on the top of his head and hugs him like he’s going to be gone for weeks and any animosity I felt towards her evaporates.

Harry turns back to us once she has gone and he looks at me with his eyes shining in a way that makes me wish I could kiss him.

“Scorpius, this is Father Harry, he’s a good friend of mine. He’s helping me to get better.”

Harry holds his hand out for Scorpius to shake, my boy does so, saying “how do you do?”

Harry laughs softly. “I am very well, thank you, Scorpius, and you?”

Scorpius nods. “I’m alright. I’d like to go on the slide.”

I can’t resist picking him up, swinging him round and squeezing him tight. “Then you shall.”

We walk to the park, Scorpius’ hand in mine, talking about everything. He has a million questions about where I am living now I’m not at home and if I’m ever going back, and I have a million questions about his new school and how he likes it where he is now.

“It’s great, I can walk to school and I have two best friends and my teacher says I have dyslexia, which is why I didn’t like reading before. I love it now. I’m allowed to read anything I want, instead of the stupid ant books.”

I burst out laughing. “Oh, thank goodness, the ant books were terrible.”

Scorpius flushes with pleasure and beams back at me. “They really were.”

He sees the slide and pulls away, running over to it, racing up the steps, glancing over to make sure I’m watching him before he slides down. I wave and he waves back and pushes off, whizzing down at what looks like a hundred miles an hour. 

“He’s adorable,” Harry says, quietly. “You’re a wonderful father.”

I am so terribly proud of him, I’m sure I have the same expression on my face that Scorpius did when we shared the joke about the ant books. “He’s an angel,” I say.

“I don’t doubt that.”

The two hours goes by in a blur. We spend the whole time at the park. I push him on the swing and the roundabout and Harry helps him on the climbing frame whilst I stand on the other side ready to catch him. We catch one another’s eyes frequently and I do my best not to think about sharing this with him all the time, no matter what I might wish for.

Scorpius holds on to me, wrapping his arms around my waist and laying his head against my stomach. I stroke his hair.

This time I do look at Astoria. She doesn’t smile, but her expression is softer when I hand Scorpius back to her. “Thank you for bringing him,” I say. “Would it be alright if I call sometimes?”

“Yes, that would be fine,” she says. “We can discuss when you may see Scorpius then.”

My heart feels as though it is soaring. I can’t believe after months of barely a word passing between us that now it seems almost amicable between us. Perhaps that is going too far. I wonder what Harry’s bishop might have said to change her mind, if it was he who brought about the change.

Astoria leads Scorpius away to her car and we stand and wave as they drive past.

“Will you come back for a cup of tea?” I ask.

The smile falls from Harry’s face. “I don’t know if that’s a wise idea.”

“Please, just a cup of tea to say thank you for organising all this.”

The smile returns at half volume. Still it is the most beautiful thing, next to my Scorpius, of course.

“It wasn’t me,” he says.

“You always say that, and yet miracles happen whenever you are involved. Please come back and I promise to stay at least ten feet from you at all times.”

Harry laughs, but it’s brief and doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I... alright, yes, just for a cup of tea.”

We walk back in a comfortable silence, Harry tilting his face towards the sky, to feel the sun upon it. I can’t help but look at him. I half wish this thing between us wasn’t there, so we could just be friends and I wouldn’t have to constantly be fighting the desire to press him up against the nearest solid surface and kiss him senseless.

“I want to come back to confession,” I say, just as we reach the front door of the cottage and I let us in.

Harry flops down on the sofa and I sit down beside him.

Harry glances at me. He’s surprised, but also pleased, I think. “Of course you can attend confession, any time you like.”

“I wasn’t sure if you thought it would be a good idea or not. I wondered if you’d prefer me to go to another priest.”

Harry sighs. “Why, you’re not going to attempt to seduce me in the confessional again, are you?”

The memory makes me warm, remembering the way his fingers brushed against my lips. “No, I don’t think so, but it must be strange hearing someone talk about you as the basis for their sin.”

“Oh, you would be surprised.”

It’s my turn to raise my eyebrows at him. “Do you get many propositions then?”

“No, no-one has ever been quite as bold as you,” he says, but clearly he isn’t going to say any more.

“I’m intrigued, what on earth do they say?”

He gives me what I suspect he regards as an enigmatic smile, but comes across as a sly grin. “I’m afraid what is said in the sanctity of the confessional is meant only for God.”

I like this side to him: this playful, slightly sacrilegious man. I’m staring at him and suddenly we are both terribly serious. I can almost hear the crackle of electricity between us. The world holds its breath and neither of us moves. Finally he drops his gaze, looking frantically for something to settle on and finding a book on the coffee table. I feel the loss of him as an aching hollow inside.

“Have you given any more thought to what you’d like to do?” he asks. “Work, I mean.”

I wince. For all my assertive aggression on the subject last time, I haven’t thought about it since. “No, I am qualified for nothing, I can’t do anything. I’m a pointless human being.”

Harry touches my arm. “No, you’re not,” he says softly. He strokes my arm, sending a shiver of need through me.

“Have you made confession yet?” I ask.

Harry pulls his hand away, looking guilty and I wish I could take back the question. “No. I’m waiting to tell the bishop.”

“What’s going to happen to you?”

Harry doesn’t answer. He curls his hand into a loose fist and rests it on his lap. 

“That bad?” I have no idea what sort of punishment would be doled out for a priest who gives in to that sort of temptation. I can’t imagine a few Hail Marys will be enough. 

“The bishop is a fair man. He already knew that I was attracted to you.”

My stomach does a horrible flip flop. “He knew that? Why would he let you carry on helping me if he knew that?”

Harry shrugs and sighs and pushes his glasses up, rubbing his eyes. “It’s a test. I am a priest, I need to face temptation and not give in. I can’t just run away from everything I think will cause me to sin. I have the choice, you see?”

I shake my head. “So I’m some kind of honey trap to lure you in? You have a choice, but I don’t, is that it?”

Harry looks as though I’ve slapped him, his eyes wide and shocked. “I didn’t think... I mean, it’s not the same for you. You’re not resisting-”

“Not resisting?!” I shout, leaping to my feet and pacing to the window. “For fuck’s sake, Harry, I keep telling myself that I am dragging you down, that I’m putting temptation in your way and I’m the one who’s at fault. I promised myself that I wouldn’t do it anymore because it hurts you and I need you, somehow. I need you to keep coming to see me, to keep _believing_ in me. You make me feel like a better man than I am - that I can be better. But I’m just a test to you.”

I am furious enough to punch him, so I stay back, I lean my forehead against the wall. I feel like banging my head against the wall, but that’s a sure way back into Severus’ clutches. It’s silent. He can’t even answer me. Bastard. I want him to go, now, before I say something I regret.

Harry’s arms, wrapping around me, make me jump. I try to pull away, but he’s surprisingly strong.

“I didn’t think,” he says. He pulls me back against me. “I’m sorry.”

He kisses the spot at the hinge of my jaw and I shudder and fall back against him. “Harry.” I twist round in his arms and he kisses me so hard my lips feel mashed against my teeth. His hands are everywhere at once, in my hair, down my back, against my arse, pulling me towards him.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says, “every time I’m alone - even in the church.” He pushes his hips forward, rubbing against me. “I want you so much I think about you coming in to confession and kneeling before me and... and...” He is frantic, his voice hoarse, his body surging against mine like the sea, crashing over me again and again.

“What am I doing?” I ask. “Kneeling before you, what am I doing?”

“Your hands are up, under...” He kisses me again, like he’s about to die if he doesn’t.

_Fuck_ I tear my mouth away from his and tilt his head back, kissing his neck. He moans, such a wanton sound.

“Tell me,” I say, “what do I do?”

“You put your head in my lap.” He’s breathless, rutting against me.

“And what happens then?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t... never get any further than that. It’s _wrong_.”

He’s so close, if the high, desperate noises he’s making are anything to go by. I still his hips with both hands, with difficulty.

“What? Oh... Draco, I’m-”

I kiss him. “Upstairs. If we’re doing this again, we’re doing it properly and forget about everything else just for now, just for this moment, please.”

Harry’s eyes are glazed and he seems to be made entirely of jelly as I try and manoeuvre him up the stairs to the front bedroom. I untuck and unbutton his shirt. He removes the collar, himself, holding it in his hands like a wounded bird.

“Don’t.” I pluck it from his hands and shove it in the drawer of the bedside cabinet. “Sit down,” I say. He sits on the bed. “Now, move back and lie down.” He shuffles back, rucking the duvet up underneath him. I pull off his shoes, socks and trousers, leaving him in just his underwear, obscenely tented and damp from his arousal. He covers himself with his hands.

“No, take your hands away.”

He rests his hands over his belly, not looking at me, his cheeks a lovely deep red. “I want to know what you have done before, with anyone else. Anything, even if it’s only looking.”

“Nothing,” he says, his voice breaking. “I have dreams sometimes about,” he bites his lip, “worshipping Jesus. With my mouth.”

_Fuck_! My hands still, my jumper half way up, just for a moment as I try to decide if he means what I think he means by that.

“I’ve never told anyone,” he whispers, looking humiliated. “I’ve never confessed to it.”

I throw off my clothes and get on the bed, touching his side, gently. His erection has flagged, unsurprisingly.

“I doubt you’re the only one,” I say. “The statues and pictures of him are attractive, you know the ones where he’s not nailed to a cross.”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut. “Don’t... It’s sick. _I’m_ sick.”

“No.” I straddle his thighs and hold his hands above his head. “You’re not sick. I’ll tell you what’s sick: men telling a young boy that falling in love is wrong. They can dress it up however they please, but that is what they did.”

He shakes his head, dislodging his glasses. “No it’s not.”

“Yes it is.” I sound like my father, which makes me shudder. “There’s nothing wrong with the way you feel,” I say in a gentler tone, removing his glasses and putting them safely on the bedside cabinet. “It’s not really surprising.”

I let go of his arms, kneeling above him. He squints up at me and I have a sort of idea.

“Close your eyes, Harry,” I say.

He swallows and licks his lips before he does as he’s bid.

“Do you trust me?” I ask.

He frowns then gives a hesitant nod. 

“I suppose that will have to do. If you want me to stop, then you just have to tell me, alright?”

He nods again, more confidently this time.

Given permission, such as it is, with Harry laid out before me, I hardly know where to start. I lean forward and his breath hitches and his eyelids flicker, but he doesn’t open his eyes.

“It’s alright I’m just going to kiss you.”

He relaxes again, licking his lips and parting them. I wish I knew what was going on through his mind. I kiss him softly, with barely there kisses, teasing him until he starts to beg for more, his neck arching up off the pillow. I thread my fingers through the mess of his hair and cup the curve of his cheek in the palm of my hand. Then I kiss him properly. He doesn’t hesitate to kiss back.

~o~o~o~

He’s going to kill me. Draco’s tongue presses into my mouth and while he’s distracting me with that he presses down and rubs against me and I feel like I’m going to come. I really want to come. I _need_ to come. But he pulls back.

“I’m going to take off your underwear, now,” he says.

The anxiety floods back into me, but I lift up anyway. He throws them towards a corner of the room and sends his own flying after. The thought of them nestling together makes me smile. It’s a distraction from thinking about being naked with him.

“You are beautiful, you have no idea how much I want you, do you?”

I should probably say something, but no words will come out. He’s kneeling over me and I can feel his bare skin touching my bare skin and it’s not something I thought I would ever actually experience. My imagination is nothing compared to the reality.

I want to touch him, to run my hands all over him, but I can’t seem to bring myself to do anything except lie here while he leans down and kisses my chest. He rubs his cheek against it. I don’t know why he does that, he reminds me of a cat. He kisses down to my belly button and I wriggle around feeling a squirmy revulsion at the idea of his tongue going in there again, but he just kisses his way around, reaching up to tug at the hairs under my armpit. 

His chin catches against me, down there, and I am sure I am going to take off. He slides his hands up between my legs and I can’t stop moving, trying to meet his hands. I know where I want them. Where I want them is the only thing I can think of right now, but he skims them over my thighs and up over my hips, tickling my sides and making me laugh out loud as his fingertips touch my armpits again.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Ticklish?” he replies.

“A bit, but why-”

I can’t finish the sentence it comes out as an incoherent cry, as his mouth closes over me. Bursts of light cross my eyelids, little glittering stars. I open my eyes and everything seems darker, closer. My hands are gripping the bed sheets. I can’t stop my hips jerking up into the hot, wet confines of his mouth. I am going to fall apart. I am going to fall off the world. I’m clinging to the bed and everything is upside down. Gravity doesn’t exist.

Draco pulls back and kisses the tip of my penis. I’m going to die. I am going to die right here in this bed. My heart is beating too hard and fast, it’s going to explode.

“No, no, don’t stop, please, please.”

Suddenly my vision is completely filled with Draco’s smiling face. “Yes, that’s what I wanted to hear.”

He lies down on top of me, his legs between mine, his hips moving, slowly at first. Slowly rubbing, stealing kisses until we’re both panting just as hard as one another, my hands, slippery with sweat, on his back. He swears and the steady roll of his hips changes - becomes frantic, his eyes squeezed shut. He shudders against me then presses down hard, my own release follows swiftly.

~o~o~o~

I roll off Harry, but I leave an arm across his waist. He hums and strokes my arm. His fingers running along the top of the bandage I’m still wearing.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he says.

“That wasn’t you,” I say.

“Oh, no, I mean, the other thing. To be honest I didn’t think that it was real, on your part. You know, with your friend and everything, it was too easy to think that you were just playing.”

I move closer to him and kiss his collar bone. “I’m not playing.”

His hands are in my hair, distracting me. “No.”

We kiss then, as lovers, arms wrapped around one another, warm and familiar.

“What happens now?” I ask. I brace myself for the worst. This time I haven’t come in with my eyes closed to the afterwards.

“I don’t know,” he says. He kisses me and strokes my back, perhaps to console me. “I have to tell the bishop. There’s no hiding.”

“I suppose that makes you very brave,” I admit, grudgingly. 

Harry frowns, he squints his eyes at me. “I can’t see you properly.” He leans over me to get his glasses, lying back, propped up on one arm.

“So you’re going to tell your bishop that you’re shacking up with me, are you?” I ask. The panicked expression that flits through his eyes is enough to answer that one. I roll onto my back. 

Harry wraps his arm around my waist and spoons up against my side, laying his head on my shoulder. “I’ve never felt like this about anyone else,” he says. “I wouldn’t just sleep with you to see if I liked it.”

“Yes, I realise that you’re not in the habit, but you’re not about to give everything up for me, are you? So you’ll forgive me if I don’t seem overjoyed right now.” 

I’m just starting to drift off to sleep when he says in a very quiet voice. “I’m very tempted.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He doesn’t even look as if he’s joking. Not even a little bit.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“No you didn’t.”

He closes his eyes. “I really did. I was thinking out loud. I have choice. I think that’s the most important aspect of religion. There’s always a choice. Everything is a choice, and after this one...”

“Yes, but you can repent and be forgiven.”

“Only if I mean it.”

It takes my drowsy brain longer to comprehend that than it should. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, putting his arms around me again. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to ruin this.” Everything he says has an air of finality about it and I know he’s made his choice.

“Alright.” I kiss him. “No more talking. How long do we have?”

He looks at the clock on the bedside table. “Not long - an hour at most. I have to be back for evening mass.”

“An hour, that’s forever.” 

Harry presses his forehead against mine. “Thank you,” he says, softly.

~o~o~o~

Draco seems intent on mapping every part of my body with his lips. He even makes me turn over and kisses my backside, which I find odd, but strangely sweet.

“Will you let me make love to you?” he asks.

I feel it then: he is wringing everything he can out of this, knowing it will be the last time. My heart aches and I stroke his face. “Yes, I want you to.”

He takes lubricant and protection out of the bedside drawer – I try not to wonder how they got there, it certainly had nothing to do with me.

I’m terrified. It feels like the world is going to fall down around us at any moment.

He gets some lubricant on his fingers and eases my legs up and apart, pressing his fingers inside. It feels strange, alien, terrifying, uncomfortable, awkward... he kisses my neck. 

“Relax. Trust me,” he says.

I try taking calming breaths and then he twists his fingers inside me and I can’t remember how to breathe at all.

I am sweating, but it’s no longer uncomfortable. There is an intense burst of pleasure from what he’s doing, that makes me cry out. He does it over and over. I am clinging to him, my fingers digging into his shoulders so hard it must be painful, but I can’t ease up. He is flushed and sheened with sweat – there’s nothing angelic about him, but purely human beauty.

I can’t stop making the noises he is bringing forth, until he takes his fingers away and I feel like crying and begging him to carry on, but the words won’t come.

He kneels up, getting the condom and rolling it on. I feel strangely voyeuristic watching him prepare himself.

“Wait, let me,” I ask, my voice thick and barely coherent as I take the lubricant from him.

He arches his back, his eyelids fluttering closed as I stroke the lubricant along the length of his penis, only then I don’t want to stop touching him so I carry on stroking him until he is panting.

“Stop, I don’t want to come yet,” he says.

My heart lurches at the thought that he might be so close. He leans down over me, his hair is stuck to his forehead with sweat and I reach up to push it aside. I’m looking at him and the panic chokes me again. “I love you,” I say, still stroking the hair away from his face.

He leans down and kisses me deeply. “I know,” he says, his voice rough.

Draco rolls me onto my side, lying behind me, pressing inside so slowly. I reach back to touch him and his hand presses down over mine, against the jutting bone of his hip. He is gasping for breath, he puts his arms around me and pulls me close to him and I forget the ache of not being able to see him, because this – being held like this – is infinitely better. I feel safe in his arms.

He moves, slowly at first. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the feel of him. His cold hands are on my stomach. He presses soft kisses along the nape of my neck that tickle and send little shivers down my spine.

I stroke his hands and twine my fingers with his, holding on tight as he starts moving faster, hot breaths against my neck and shoulder, and suddenly I am there with him. I pull his hand down lower until he wraps it around my penis, my fingers still linked with his as he brings me off, matching each stroke for each thrust inside me.

I twist my head and we kiss - messy, clumsy kisses. Draco groans, his hand speeding up.

I wish that I could hold on to this moment forever, but the end is inevitable.

~Fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Please return to [LIVEJOURNAL ](http://hd-hurtfest.livejournal.com/)to leave a comment there. Feel free to leave a comment here, too. :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Surrender](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2112255) by [Iwao](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwao/pseuds/Iwao)




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